


The stars incline us, they do not bind us

by ikeracity, Pangea



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Space, Captivity, Choking, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Shaving, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 02:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 162,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intergalactic Federation pilot Lieutenant Charles Xavier is assigned last-minute to a high profile mission: transporting over two thousand prison inmates from an old and overfilled prison complex to a newer, higher-capacity prison stronghold located on the outer reaches of the galaxy. Just as he's settling down for a long and uneventful ride, things take a turn for the worse after the inmates riot and stage a hostile takeover of the ship, leaving Charles to find himself at the complete mercy of cold-blooded killers and facing the chilling prospect that he might not ever make it back home alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [The stars incline us, they do not bind us 星辰相吸非相系，如你我](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129698) by [Glacier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glacier/pseuds/Glacier), [ikeracity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity), [Pangea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea)



Charles normally sleeps poorly for a day or two when he returns to Corellia from the Outer Zones. Both the difference in zonal time and the disquieting silence of his apartment take some getting used to when his body’s used to strict eight-hour shifts and the constant, soothing hum of a ship’s mechanical systems keeping them gliding smoothly through the blackness of space. The adjustment makes him cranky and tired, which is why Raven never likes visiting him the first few days he’s home.

But tonight, he’s either too exhausted to deal with the usual tossing and turning or his body’s finally learned how to transition seamlessly from space to planet because the moment his head hits the pillow, he’s out like a light.

What follows is a deep, dreamless sleep that would have ideally lasted for at least ten hours but in reality barely even makes it to three. It feels like he’s barely shut his eyes when the chirping of his comm unit rouses him, and he’s so tired that he actually reaches out to pick it up and hurl it against the wall. But his hand knocks against it and the blasted thing clatters to the floor, still beeping. He’s far too sluggish to reach down to retrieve it so he mutters, resigned, “What is it?”

“Priority one message from Commissioner Moira MacTaggert,” his comm unit announces. “Subject: new transport assignment. Prompt response required.”

“What? That has to be a mistake. Read it to me again.”

“Priority one message from Commissioner Moira MacTaggert. Subject: new transport assignment. Prompt response required.”

“Fuck,” Charles mutters, pushing himself out of his pillow far enough to reach the comm unit on the floor. “Show me the message.”

The bright screen blinds him for a moment before his eyes focus on the words, and sure enough, there’s the order. He considers ignoring it and making the excuse in the morning that he slept through the notifications. But Moira’s far too sharp to buy that and besides, there’s a note at the bottom of the message that says, _Bonus to be paid at conclusion of assignment_. He figures he might as well see how substantial the bonus is before passing it up.

He sends off a request for further information and then rubs at his gritty eyes, wishing he had a stimulant. Those things are shit for your system in the long run but at least he wouldn’t feel like he’d been flattened by a slow-moving hovercar. Lots of other pilots stockpile stimulants but Charles had never gotten in the habit. Maybe with the assignments piling on like they are, he’ll finally have to.

Only a couple of minutes later, his comm starts flashing a green light and he accepts the video call, only half-surprised that Moira’s awake at this time of night. Sometimes he wonders if she ever sleeps.

“Sorry for waking you up,” she says when she sees him. From the backdrop, it looks like she’s sitting in her office, as alert and well-groomed as ever. She doesn’t even have shadows under her eyes, which has always baffled Charles. Even when they were at the Academy together pulling three all-nighters in a row studying for finals, she’d always come to class the next day looking as if she’d just woken up from the best sleep of her life. Charles always looked like he’d spent the morning fighting his way out of a trash compactor.

“No, you’re not,” he grumbles. He doesn’t bother to sit up, even though Moira’s his superior officer; they’re too good of friends to stand on decorum in private. “Tell me I’m misunderstanding your message.”  

“You’re not. I need you at Amiari ready to ship out at 0800.”

Charles sinks further down into his pillow. “I just got home today. Pilots are supposed to have at least three days’ leave before shipping out again.”

“This is a special case. You were personally requested by the admirals to go on this.”

Charles’ frown deepens. “Personally requested?” He pulls up her previous message again and scans it through, his stomach sinking with every word. “Destination OZ-48. That’s a six-month round trip, Moira. You know Raven’s due in three months and I have to be here for that.”

“This is of utmost priority,” Moira replies. At least she sounds contrite now. “I wouldn’t be assigning this to you if it weren’t important.”

“What’s so important—” He cuts off, attention snagging on the cargo list. “Wait, _inmates?_  We’re transporting prisoners?”

“Two thousand seventy-four of them,” Moira confirms without batting an eye. “KG Penitentiary was built almost two hundred years ago and it’s falling apart. IF Command has decided that relocation would be a better alternative to renovation. The new prison in OZ-48 is state-of-the-art and it’s got plenty of vacancies. Everything’s ready for them, they just have to be moved.”

“Over two thousand,” Charles says, glancing through the attached manifest. “A whole penitentiary—that’s way too many for a standard Firefly military transport. Even normal prison ships aren’t designed to hold so many inmates at a time.”

Moira nods. “Which is why IF engineers have been hard at work for the last two months retrofitting a Constitution-class transport with extra security measures and accommodations.”

“The last two months?” Charles echoes, brow furrowing. “Then why am I only finding out about this assignment now?”

“One of the six pilots had to drop out. He came down with Silurean fever this morning and the doctors have grounded him. You’re the only other IF pilot on Corellia qualified to fly Constitution-class.”

Charles groans. “Right now I’m really wishing I hadn’t taken that extra semester of Advanced Piloting.”

Moira cracks a grin. “Look, it’s not going to be too bad. Even though you’re transporting unusual cargo, the security will be top-notch. You’ll get a pretty hefty bonus when you get back, probably enough for you to finally splurge on that hovercycle you’ve got your eye on. And you’ll be flying under Captain Huxley. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“And Raven? I promised her I’d be here when she had the baby.”

“And I _am_ sorry for that, Charles. Truly. But…”

“But duty calls,” he finishes with a sigh. Mentally, he’s already preparing for Raven’s angry silences; it seems like all he can do these days is disappoint her. “Okay, fine. I’ll see you at the space bay tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, I’ll be there to see you off. Try to get some more sleep tonight.”

“Too late for that,” he gripes as he signs off and tosses the comm back onto the nightstand.

He’s right: he doesn’t sleep another wink that night.

 

*

 

Amiari Space Bay is the largest on Corellia and the headquarters of the Intergalactic Federation’s military forces on the planet. The base is a constant flurry of motion at every hour of every day, with shuttles zooming from port to port, personnel milling about in every direction, and starships docking and undocking in orderly fashion. The docks in the single digits are intended for the largest space craft, so Charles takes a shuttle to Terminal A and gets off just as Moira appears outside of Dock 5.

“There you are,” she says, spotting him instantly. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Huxley.”

“We’ve met before,” Charles tells her as they head through to Dock 5. The buzz of thousands of minds flit against his own, and he shuts out the cacophony with some effort. Places as crowded as a space bay are never fun. He can already feel a slight headache starting to form between his eyes. “I flew under him once out to IZ-7. It was years ago though. He probably doesn’t remember me.”

“He might.” Moira smiles. “You’re a memorable person.”  

As they walk down the long tunnel toward the loading area, Charles gets his first glimpse of the ship he’s going to spend the next six months piloting. The tunnel is lined with glass windows that afford an unparalleled view of the cavernous open space of the actual dock where the ship is anchored. She’s enormous, a hundred times larger than the Firefly transports Charles has been flying for the last couple of years. Sleek, black, and long, she’s intimidating and powerful, designed to comfortably carry up to six thousand crewmembers. On her hull in elegant white letters is her name: _FSS Serenity_.

“Beautiful ship, isn’t she?” Moira asks, following his admiring gaze.

Charles eyes the long, thin shape of the ship, so different from the blocky design of the Firefly class. “You know I haven’t flown a Constitution class in over a year, right?”

“Yes, but your scores on your aviation eval two years ago were impeccable. Anyway, you’ll be on rotation with five other pilots, two on the bridge at all times. You’ll have someone there to prod you in the right direction.”

“Reassuring, really.”

Captain Frank Huxley is standing by the loading door when they arrive. At his side is a young black man with a tablet currently displaying what looks like part of an impulse engine. He’s pointing out something with a stylus but pauses as they approach.

“Captain Huxley,” Moira says warmly, shaking his hand.  

“Commissioner MacTaggert.” Huxley’s smile creases long lines around his mouth. He’s nearly sixty now, if Charles’ memory serves him correctly. Age has not been very kind to him but he still has a genial bearing and some trace of his youthful handsomeness remains in his nose and eyes. “Here to see us off?”

“Yes. Allow me to introduce you to Lieutenant Charles Xavier, your sixth pilot.”

Huxley shakes Charles’ hand firmly. “Lieutenant. We’ve met before.”

“Yes, sir. I flew under you three years ago.”

“Very good. Then I know I can count on you.” The captain releases his hand and waves to his companion. “This is Armando Muñoz, my assistant engineer.”

“Pleasure,” Charles says.

Muñoz nods. “Likewise.”

“You should go ahead and get settled,” Huxley says to Charles. “We’ll be undocking at 0845.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the captain turns back to the conversation with his engineer, Moira gives Charles a quick hug and then pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in six months.”

“Holding my bonus pay, hopefully,” he says wryly.

She laughs. “You can be sure of it. I promise to visit Raven in the hospital as well and update you on the baby.”

“You’d better.” Three months down the road, Raven will probably still be pissed at him enough not to bother to even send him one picture. The first thing he’s going to do with his payday when he gets back is buy her and the baby something ridiculous and charming.

“Fly safe,” Moira calls as he turns toward the loading door.

Charles grins and gives her a two-finger salute. “When do I not?”

 

*

 

Their first stop is IZ-37 to load up the prisoners. From the Core Zones to the Inner Zones is a three-day trip so Charles spends the time getting acquainted with his fellow pilots and with the general layout of the ship. He’d studied the design of the Constitution class starship at the Academy (one of the only exams in his entire academic career that he’d almost failed because he’s shockingly bad at memorizing blueprints) so he knows generally where all the major areas are: galley, mess hall, crew quarters, bridge, cargo bay. Since the Serenity has been retrofitted, he spends a few idle hours familiarizing himself with the modifications. _Never fly a ship you don’t know in and out_ , is what his freshman flying instructor used to say. Charles figures a passing knowledge of the Serenity will have to do.

The other five pilots on the ship are competent, amiable people. Four are humans and one is a mutant and all of them are already friends. It’s obvious that they’ve already worked together before but Charles doesn’t feel like an outsider for long; they’re chatty and more than willing to envelop him into their group. They don’t even flinch when he tells them he’s a telepath, and he decides he’s going to have no problems with sharing shifts with them for the next half year.

The whole ambience in the ship is sleepy and relaxed. Charles hasn’t been on a ship that feels this calm in a long while.

Then, on the third day, KG Penitentiary comes into view.

Charles is off-duty when they arrive so he only realizes they’re nearing the prison when the announcement overhead informs crewmembers that they’ll be docking momentarily. Less than ten minutes later, the ship shudders as the docking mechanisms lock in around its hull and when Charles gets up to peer out the window of his quarters, he can see the gray block of the prison station just outside.   

All off-duty crew are ordered to remain in their quarters during the prisoner transfer, so in the end, Charles sees none of it. After he spends an hour sitting by his holoscreen terminal aimlessly reading through news from Corellia, Huxley announces on the overhead, “Cargo is loaded. Crew, prepare for undocking.” And that’s that.

“How is everything?” Moira asks him that afternoon on a comm call. The Serenity has an excellent communications array; in the older Firefly-class ships, comm calls are sometimes grainy and broken up. But here, Moira could have been standing in front of him in person and she wouldn’t have looked any clearer.

“Good,” Charles replies as he snacks on chips from the mess hall. “Prisoner transfer went smoothly. We’re twelve days out from OZ-1. Another two and a half months to OZ-48 and then we can head home.”

“Good to hear. You know, I talked to Raven today and she’s pretty upset with you.”

“I wonder whose fault that is,” Charles says, giving Moira a baleful look. “I deliberately cleared my schedule to be home on the due date and then you slapped me on this detail. It’s _you_ she should be cross with.”

Moira shakes her head with a laugh. “Alright, I accept full responsibility. Damn, I suppose this means she won’t be naming the baby after me.”

“She was never naming the baby after you,” Charles sniffs. “ _Charles_ is a much better name for a kid.”

“And if it’s a girl?”

“Charlotte,” Charles replies without missing a beat.

Moira rolls her eyes. “Of course. I should’ve known.” She’s very obviously fighting not to grin though and they end up laughing together, both well aware of the fact that Raven would probably name her baby after their late stepfather before she ever named it after Charles.

“So how’s Sean coming along?” Charles asks slyly, and Moira sighs.

“We’ve been on three coffee dates and they’ve gone fine, but he just pinged me before I called you, actually, with an invite to _another_ one.”

“Wait, that’s good, right? I thought we liked Sean.” Charles may or may not be a little over invested in the Moira MacTaggert and Sean Cassidy saga, which has spanned on for as long as the last mission he’d been on. In his own defense, what _else_ is supposed to entertain him on a four-month-long run out to the NR-9 quadrant with nothing but empty Destroyer-class nacelles for cargo?

“Charles,” Moira says flatly, giving him a look, “after three coffee dates that have gone exceptionally well, normal people ask you out to dinner.”

“Oh.” Charles grins sheepishly. “Maybe he likes taking things slow? It only took him three months to ask you out for coffee in the first place.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Be patient, it’s clear he likes you,” Charles assures her, leaning down briefly to toss his empty chip bag in the waste receptacle. “Or maybe try being assertive? Drop a few strong hints that dinner would be nice?”

Moira shakes her head at him, exasperated but fond. “Your lack of good relationship advice is very telling, Charles.”

Charles grins and shrugs. “You knew me back at the Academy. Not much has changed since then.”

“Just because you’re a pilot doesn’t mean you can never settle down,” Moira starts, but sighs again when Charles raises his hands, fingers spread wide. “Alright, I’ll spare you the lecture. But Gabby was fun. She wouldn’t have minded you being gone a lot. Brandon was nice, too.”

Charles snorts. “That’s the only thing that was keeping my and Gabby’s relationship alive towards the end, our completely different course schedules where we barely saw each other. What’s the point in that? And Brandon cheated on me with three different people. Simultaneously.”

“Oh yeah,” Moira says, and it’s her turn to smile sheepishly, “I forgot about that. It all sort of blurs together with your long and winding string of random hookups that immediately followed.”

“Thanks for that,” Charles answers mock-reproachfully, and Moira bats lightly at the screen in lieu of being able to bat his shoulder. A small notification pops up in the lower corner of his screen, lettering flashing red for priority. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Huxley’s buzzing me and I’m back on shift in an hour anyway.”

“Alright,” Moira says, “stay safe.”

“Enjoy cappuccino number four,” Charles answers with a wink, and cuts the transmission while Moira’s only halfway through her eyeroll. He spares a moment to make sure his front isn’t covered in chip crumbs and that he really still does have an hour left till he’s back on duty and hasn’t somehow mixed up the times before tapping on the waiting notification to bring it up to full screen. “Sir.”

Huxley’s image blinks into view, stern but not imposing. “Afternoon, Xavier. Report on down to conference room A6 on fourth deck in a quarter hour. Now that we’ve all had a chance to settle in, the captain of the guard detail wants to brief the rest of us on what we’re carrying and go over a few protocols. Nothing complicated. If it runs too long you can duck out and head to the bridge, I know you and Johnson are on next shift.”

“Yessir,” Charles answers promptly, resisting the urge to add that yes, it _is_ complicated, as he’s never piloted a ship where the cargo consists of convicted criminals.

“How’s the Serenity been handling for you so far, Lieutenant?”

“Like a lady, sir,” Charles reports truthfully. It hadn’t taken him long to adjust to her controls. The Constitution class is nothing if not straightforward. “She’s a fine ship despite her new line of duty.”

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Huxley says, lifting a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. “I’ll see you down in A6, son.”

“Sir,” Charles acknowledges, throwing off a quick salute before Huxley terminates the comm line.

He pushes himself back from his holoscreen terminal, swiveling around in his chair. His quarters aren’t anything to write home about, small and perhaps even considered cramped if he wasn’t used to making tiny lieutenant quarters home for months at a time. His bed is little more than a long, thin alcove along one wall with a mattress, and after his desk and single dresser take up their necessary space, it doesn’t leave him with much room left over. The best thing about the ship so far in his opinion is the fact that his quarters has its own attached bathroom, which is practically a rarity these days on newer ships. It’s more of a closet, split halfway to leave room for the shower, but anything beats community bathrooms like the lower level crewmembers probably have to make do with.

Charles climbs to his feet and stretches, only then realizing that he’d answered Huxley’s call in only his white undershirt. At least Huxley hadn’t commented on it, he thinks as he grabs his uniform jacket off the edge of the bed, he’d never been one for standing on ceremony anyway if Charles recalls correctly. He shakes the jacket out, holding it up to inspect for wrinkles—not that the material allows much leeway for such a thing. Pilot uniforms are simple, closer to actual flight suits than the lighter, regular type of uniform worn by most everyone else. Form-fitting and a deep navy blue, the jacket sits snugly on Charles’ shoulders when he shrugs it on, silver bars slanting down on either side to denote his rank. The material, while rigid enough to provide protection from minor blasts and small electrical fires, is still flexible enough to allow him some maneuverability even when zipped up and sealed tight.

He’s grateful for the layer. Space is cold, and Charles has always lacked the extra padding himself in order to keep entirely warm. At least he looks bloody good in tight uniforms.

He ducks into his bathroom to splash some water on his face and then slips out of his quarters, door hissing shut behind him. Officer and pilot quarters are located on the second deck, just below the bridge. Charles doesn’t see anyone else in the hall as he makes his way to the lift, and his ride two decks down to the fourth deck is solitary as well, swift as it is.

When the doors slide apart to allow Charles off, he’s instantly greeted by the general hubbub of a lot of people gathered together in a small space, both aloud and mentally. He raises his shields a little more, if only to keep himself from being distracted from what’s being spoken aloud compared to what is only thought, and makes a beeline for the open doors of conference room A6 where everyone else has gathered.

His gaze searches out his fellow pilots amongst the chairs that have been arranged in rows, only two of the others present since the remaining two are still on duty. The chairs around them however are already occupied, the room filling up quickly as other crewmembers from engineering, the galley, and general maintenance arrive. Huxley’s summoned everyone, Charles realizes, or at least everyone who isn’t currently at their post. As blasé as the captain had sounded on the comm call about it, the information must be important.

Charles claims one of the last seats more on the edge of the room, next to a mutant with bright red skin and a barbed tail, of all things, curling absently around his seatback. He’s wearing the all-black, more combative-looking uniform that all the prison guards wear which makes him stick out from the rest of the crew—he’s the only prison guard present, aside from the guard commander who stands off to the side of the front of the room with Huxley.

Before Charles can strike up a conversation and compliment the man’s mutation—he’s always held a special appreciation for visible mutations, the man’s red skin reminding him of Raven’s gorgeous blue scales, and that tail has to be prehensile—Huxley clears his throat and steps forward, and an immediate silence falls.

“The law requires me to brief you all on the standard procedures regarding our precious cargo when something goes wrong—not that anything’s going wrong,” he says, drawing a few chuckles out of the group. “Seeing as he knows more about the care and keeping of inmates, I’m going to let Commander Briscoe take the floor for this. Commander.”

Briscoe steps up, a stark contrast to the captain. He’s much younger than Huxley, or at least he appears that way, tanned skin and smooth bald head hiding any major tells of age. His eyes are cold and grey, sweeping across the room like twin lasers with clinical precision, and Charles has no doubt that they’ve all just been evaluated and judged within the space of a second. His mind, when Charles dares to sneak an assessing tendril of his telepathy forward to just barely brush the surface of Briscoe’s thoughts, is utterly mechanical and clicks away like a machine, mercenary cold and mercilessly efficient. Charles withdraws, not wanting any form of prolonged contact at all.

“All of you are military,” Briscoe begins, and his voice reminds Charles of a drill sergeant's: harsh and grating, and always with the condescending tone that suggests the speaker is under the assumption that everyone he’s addressing is an idiot. Charles dislikes it at once. “But you may as well be civilians when it comes to handling prisoners.”

Charles leans back in his chair, folding his arms. He’s not the only one unimpressed by the commander’s tone; several other crewmembers have adopted the same pose, while others still exchange comments in low mutters that are clearly derisive. Even Huxley looks like he’s just barely holding back from saying something, expression frozen in an almost artfully blank facade.

“That’s why no one is allowed beyond deck seven without clearance given by me personally,” Briscoe continues. Charles wonders if the man even realizes that he’s already alienated himself from the entire room, or if he even cares. “Here’s how we’re set up.”

He snaps his fingers and a hologram of the Serenity is projected into the empty space in the front of the room, main lights dimming automatically so the image is clear. As they all watch, the ship rotates and then splits in half, cracking open wide so that the cross section of the entire ship is on display, each of the ten decks in view. Decks seven through ten are highlighted in red.

“For the duration of this journey, KG staff will have full purview over decks seven through ten,” Briscoe says. “Prisoners are being contained on decks eight through ten. Deck seven will be prison staff quarters. The only crewmembers allowed access to restricted areas without prior consultation with myself or my assistant warden are engineers in charge of the engineering section that extends down to deck seven. These zones will be patrolled regularly and any crewmember found in violation of these rules will be subject to immediate discipline.”

The general air of discontent thickens. “We aren’t the enemy here,” someone calls from the back, and though Briscoe turns sharply toward the voice, the lights are too dim to make any faces out. At his side, Huxley says, “We understand your rules, Commander, and IF Command has instructed us to give you full support. Move on.”   

Briscoe’s expression twitches in displeasure. “I want your people to understand exactly what we’re dealing with here, Captain. The inmates we have here aren’t two-bit thieves or druggies. They’re murderers, terrorists, and generally the worst kind of scum. We either treat them with the proper caution or we risk falling into some really deep shit, am I clear?”

Perfectly, Charles thinks to himself. The crew of this ship isn’t composed of amateurs; all of them are experienced soldiers who know how to take orders and how to act in an emergency situation. No one is taking their cargo lightly.

When no one speaks up, Briscoe continues stonily, “In the event of an escaped prisoner, the lower decks will be locked down and the ship will be put on red alert. Crewmembers are to remain at their posts or in their quarters until the situation is contained. If you hear the alarm go off, stay where you are. An emergency lockdown switch will be tripped and all crewmember quarters, level one of the engineering deck, the galley, and the bridge will be sealed shut until the all-clear codes are given.”

Total lockdown, Charles thinks skeptically. And what happens to anyone in the halls, or anywhere else that hasn’t been sealed? Then again, he supposes that any escaped prisoners won’t have very much of a chance to make it very far.

“What if I have to piss?” another voice calls from the back of the room, followed by a wave of laughter throughout the room.

“Gentlemen,” Huxley warns, but his mouth twitches once.

Briscoe chooses not to react this time. “A good third of the prison population from KG are mutants, so you don’t need to be told that some of these inmates can get real nasty. They should all have inhibitor collars on, but if one of them gets free somehow, there’s no telling the sort of havoc they could wreak. So keeping to your posts and out of the way is of the utmost importance in an escape situation.”

The hologram changes, flickering from their view of the Serenity to an image of an inhibitor collar, enlarged so everyone can see and rotating slowly in place. More muttering picks up again and Charles instantly knows exactly how many mutants are in the crew by the unease he can pick up, flickering like firelight to his telepathy. Even Charles is wary, staring at the collar while Briscoe begins to talk, explaining how it works.

“All collars are electronically locked with several failsafes in place to prevent them from popping open,” Briscoe says. The inhibitor in the image stops rotating and opens, like the jaws of a trap despite the lack of teeth. “As you might already know, the way the inhibitor works is through a series of timed doses administered from the back of the collar, in the nape of the wearer’s neck.”

As they all watch, a small compartment on the inside of the collar slides open and a tiny needle slides out and jabs at the empty air before retracting back into the collar. There’s the teeth, Charles thinks, and tries to pretend that the back of his neck isn’t prickling.

“The dose is administered once every two hours, which gives the drug plenty of time to get through the wearer’s system without wearing down. No one’s overdosing but no one has time to feel their powers coming back either.”

“What happens if the drug runs out?” someone asks, followed by a few affirmatives. Charles doesn’t have to check to know that they’re all human.

“It won’t.” Briscoe doesn’t smile, but Charles figures that if he _were_ the type of man to smile, he’d be wearing a nasty one right now. “It only takes a tiny amount of the drug at a time to work, and all these collars were stocked before this field trip started. The mutant inmates on this ship all have enough of the drug in their collar to last twice as long as this trip is expected to take.”

An entire year without their powers, Charles thinks with a chill. He can’t imagine going very long without his telepathy or spending any amount of time completely cut off from it—even in their childhood, when Raven adamantly refused to allow him to read even her surface thoughts, she’d felt... _less_ to him, somehow. Like she was only a shadow of a person.

These are all convicted criminals, though. They’ve been cut off from their powers ever since their incarceration began. If they hadn’t, they wouldn’t still be in prison. They’d be long gone, using their powers to help facilitate their escape. The inhibitors are necessary to ensure that they face their sentences in full for the sake of justice.

“There’s only one person on this ship who has the means and the codes necessary for any kind of tampering with the collars,” Briscoe concludes, “and that person is me. And you can all rest assured that I’m not about to let a bunch of criminal muties have free reign.”

Charles narrows his eyes at the slur, but most of the rest of the room laughs, the tide of their amusement mostly washing out the pinpricks of disgruntlement he can feel from the other mutants in the room. Only the red-skinned man beside him is unaffected and gives a wide grin, sharp tail flicking once before he abruptly disappears in a poof of black smoke that makes Charles jump. Teleportation. How _fascinating_.

“That’s about all I have,” Briscoe says, snapping his fingers again so that the hologram fades and the main lights brighten. “Follow all procedures in the event of an incident and we won’t sustain any casualties.”

“The ship has special security measures to prevent such incidents from occurring,” Huxley adds, “so if anything happens, it’ll be over very quickly. We’ll be distributing revised emergency protocols following this meeting. Most procedures will proceed as they would in any normal ship but everyone should give the addendums a look anyway. That’ll be all.”

The room fills with the sound of chairs scraping as everyone begins to file out the doors. A check at his watch tells Charles he’s got about half an hour to spare before his shift starts, so he slips out of the conference room and heads to the mess hall, hoping to find something to tide him over better than the handful of chips he’d had.

“Hold the lift!” a voice calls just as Charles has stepped through the elevator doors to head up, so Charles sticks his foot out quickly. Armando Muñoz jogs the rest of the way over and joins him inside. “Thanks, man.”

“Which deck?” Charles asks. “It’s Muñoz, right?”

“Fourth,” he confirms with a nod, “and call me Darwin.”

“Nickname?” Charles asks as he taps the panel and they begin to rise.

“For my mutation,” Darwin explains, “my body can pretty much change to fit any kind of environment. Adapt to survive.”

“Amazing,” Charles says, and means it. “Can you even spacewalk without gear?”

Darwin grins. “Yep. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Makes my telepathy seem like a cheap parlor trick,” Charles admits.

“Telepathy,” Darwin repeats, but rather than wary he merely sounds as equally impressed as Charles is by him. “Nice to meet you, brother.”

“Charles,” Charles answers with a grin. After Briscoe it feels good to bond with another mutant.

Perhaps it’s possible for Darwin to adapt into becoming a mind reader as well because as they reach the fourth deck and the elevator doors hiss open he comments, “Man that guy was an asshole, wasn’t he?”

“Completely,” Charles agrees at once. They walk down towards the mess together and though it’s early yet for dinner to be served, there are still a few leftovers out on the serving tables from lunch. He snags a ham sandwich and waits for Darwin to take a cookie before heading back toward the door.

“Where are you headed?” Darwin asks.

“Bridge. I’m on shift at 1600 hours.”

“You on an eight-hour rotation?”

“Yeah.”

“At least it’s not the midnight shift,” Darwin says with a grin. “Those are always the worst.”

There’s no concept of night and day in space but Darwin’s right: there’s something about the midnight shift that always makes Charles feel lethargic and cranky. Luckily, it’s the rookie pilots that usually get slapped with the undesirable rotations and Charles hasn’t been a rookie in a long time.

“Where are you going?” Charles asks as they round the corridor back toward the lift.

“Over to the gym,” Darwin replies, finishing off his cookie and brushing the crumbs off against his pants. “Some of the other mutants on board play rec volleyball together in the evening. You should come sometime.”

“I think I’ll be on shift, unfortunately. But thanks for the invite.”

“No worries,” Darwin says easily, “maybe I can talk to the other guys and work out other times too so you can join.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Charles says warmly, excited by the prospect. Raven always used to tease him about his career path as a deep space pilot, and not without foundation—Charles loves people and the underlying bubble of minds and their thoughts that come along with human interaction. He can’t deny at all how pleased he is to already be making friends on this run. “I’ll see you around, then.”

“Have a good shift,” Darwin replies with a small wave before they part, Charles stepping back onto an elevator that will take him the few levels up to the bridge.

The bridge is dimly lit and quiet when he steps on board, only the dim glow of sensors and system readings illuminating the gloom. It’s an old standby to keep the bridge darkened while not docked in port; it’s easier to see out the panoramic viewscreens if there’s no harsh glare of light blocking out the blackness of space. Donovan and Brax, the two pilots currently on duty, are glad to see him; Charles’ arrival means that their shift is over.

“Anything to report?” Charles asks as he enters his name and the time into the ship’s log to record his watch’s start.

“Nothing,” Donovan replies, “old girl is holding quiet and steady.”

“No anomalies from the outside either,” Brax adds, “I guess there’s not a lot a traffic out this way.”

The elevator doors open again and they’re joined by Johnson. “What’s happening, guys?”

“We were just telling Xavier,” Brax replies with a laugh, “absolutely nothing.”

They’re quick to leave after that, elevator doors hissing shut, and Charles settles himself into work mode. He and Johnson go through the standard checklist of items, running diagnostics tests and checking the calibrations on the instruments currently measuring fuel levels, oxygen levels, and auxiliary power levels. Charles makes note of everything in the log, and by a mere twenty minutes into their shift, they’ve run out of things to do.

Johnson moves off to toy with the ship’s outer sensors, setting them to ping at nearby stars as they pass. Charles drifts over to the navigation table, a star chart of the surrounding quadrant projected up into 3D above it and runs through the numbers on their plotted course manually. The computer has done this already, of course, and the room for error is close to nil, but there’s something about doing the calculations himself that is reassuring, and satisfying when he comes out with results that mirror the computer’s. Their trajectory is straight, staying mostly on a single vector for the majority of their trip. There’s not much to worry about running into once you get past OZ-1, ship traffic or otherwise. They always say that the Outer Zones is where space starts getting deeper, wilder, and emptier and well—they’re not wrong.

Charles already has a spot picked out on the Serenity’s bridge. Any ship he pilots, he always has a spot that he mentally designates as his for the duration of the run, where he always ends up standing or sitting any time he’s on watch. This time it’s the little nook in between the far left wall of the bridge and the end of the navigation console, where he can wedge himself in and stare out the window into space, ears perked for any signs of activity either on the comm line or from their sensors but otherwise lost in his thoughts.

That’s one of the main things he enjoys about being a deep space pilot. Plenty of time to think. Johnson is quiet where he’s settled in on the other side of the bridge, so it’s easy for Charles to fall back on thoughts about Raven and the baby, and what she’ll decide to name it—Charles knows she has to have names picked out by now even though she refuses to say—and whether or not Irene has seen its gender yet. He can take them all on a vacation with his bonus pay, he muses, and entertains the idea of Raven lounging back on the beach on Pellinore-4 while surrounded by every single child sand toy available on the market.

He supposes a newborn might not really be able to fully appreciate the beach just yet.

The hours pass slowly and uneventfully, but outside the ship space passes by silently at hundreds of light years a second, though Charles could swear that they’ve barely moved at all.

 

*

 

The next week and a half passes in much of the same way: on schedule, but slowly and uneventfully. Charles’ watch schedule remains the same, but Darwin comes through and arranges volleyball games at earlier times with some of the other guys and Charles ends up playing with them during the main lunch hour. They’re exhilarating games where powers are allowed, sometimes at the expense of the equipment—so far they’ve already accidentally destroyed two balls, and Huxley himself has to come down and warn them all to take it easy after the ceiling gets singed, though he sounds more amused than angry.

Charles sends daily messages to Raven describing the ship, his personal quarters, the quality of the food, the mutations of all the mutants he’s met. She has yet to respond to any of them, but Charles isn’t worried. She’s probably still angry with him, and it always takes her about a month to come around every time he has to unexpectedly leave on a mission at the last moment that disrupts any plans they might have had. This time will probably take even longer on the account of Charles missing the birth of her child but Charles still sends her a message each day anyway; plenty for her to read if she does end up getting put on bedrest.

Charles is on duty when the Serenity passes into OZ-1, watching as their star chart flickers and changes over the navigation console to depict the new quadrant they’ve entered. Huxley’s on the bridge at the time as well, stopping by on his rounds, and he makes a small hum of consideration, sharp eyes following the green line of their plotted course.

“You boys flown in the Outer Zones before?” he asks.

“A few times,” Charles answers, trying to sound awake and alert and not like he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed. He’d woken up with a pounding headache this morning and it hadn’t taken long to figure out why: the inmates down below are restless, the swelling tide of their heightened thoughts and emotions leaching upwards through the ship to batter at the usual low-level shields Charles employs. He’d been forced to strengthen them and as a result his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, or like he has a bad cold. “Few and far between, though.”

“Only twice,” Johnson adds with a nod.

“Well at least they didn’t give me total greenhorns,” Huxley sighs, but his lips twitch once in a smile. “We should be big enough for anything out here to not want to mess with us, but you both know the drill if it comes to a confrontation. They’ve outfitted us with enough firepower to not require a couple of Destroyer escorts, because god forbid they spare any more ships on a mission like this, but we’re not invincible. Either of you trained in combat maneuverability?”

“I am,” Charles confirms.

“Well then, Xavier,” Huxley says wryly, “you’re our ace in the hole.”

Charles smiles faintly. “Yessir.”

“You think we’ll even run into anyone out here?” Johnson asks after Huxley has left. The other pilot toys idly with a stylus from one of the consoles, tapping it against the edge of the plexiglass.

“I doubt it,” Charles answers honestly, rubbing his temples. “You mind not doing that? Thanks, mate.”

“Sorry,” Johnson answers absently. He puts the stylus down and a blissful silence falls.

The remaining two hours of their shift drag by. When their relief arrives in the form of Ramirez and Brax, Charles barely spends any time socializing, reporting the overall lack of anomalies before slipping into the elevator to head back down to his quarters. A full eight hours of sleep with his shields up should be enough to refresh him and kill the dull ache in his skull.

There’s a message blinking in the bottom corner of his holoscreen when he enters his quarters, kicking off his boots and collapsing down to sit on the edge of his bed. He nearly leaves it for the morning, assuming that it’s just Raven finally deigning to respond to him. Then his conscience catches up—what if something happened with the baby?—so he heaves himself back up and stumbles over to his desk, screwing up his eyes to squint at the bright screen.

It’s from his sister-in-law, which is strange; Irene dislikes typing messages out and prefers voice or even image calls that at least have sound. Charles opens it, genuinely worried now that something has happened to Raven and the baby, but finds that the message is only two words long.

[ _Be careful._ ]

Charles blinks, tapping at the screen to see if he can scroll down for anything else but that’s all there is. Irene’s power allows her to see glimpses of the future, so she must have seen something about his ship entering the Outer Zones. She isn’t keen on always revealing the entirety of what she’s seen—sometimes it doesn’t even make sense to her until it’s too late anyway—so Charles has no idea what she could be cautioning him against and knows that any request for more information will be gently denied. Whatever she’s seen, it can’t have been _too_ bad. Surely she would tell him if it was.

He types back a short reply assuring her that he will be and tells her to give Raven a kiss on the cheek for him, tapping send and powering the holoscreen down. He struggles out of his uniform in the three steps it takes him to get back over to his bed, and is asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

 

*

 

Charles wakes to blaring alarms that jolt him out of deep sleep, disorientated and adrenaline already pumping. He sits up too quickly and almost smacks his head into the ceiling of his bed’s alcove before he remembers at the last second, throwing himself down awkwardly to the side and scrabbling off the mattress.

His legs are shaky when his feet hit the cold floor and it takes him another moment to get his bearings straight. He pulls his uniform back on, clumsy on the account that he’s still only half-awake, and just when he zips his jacket up his brain finally kicks online: oh right. Lockdown. There’s no point in getting dressed if he’s going to be stuck in his room for the unseeable future until the all-clear is given.

Charles goes over to the door, intending to lean his ear against it to listen for anyone trapped out in the hallway, and instead ends up staggering out of his room when the door slides open automatically like normal. The main lights in the hallway are down and only the emergency lights remain, slowly flashing on-off, on-off and bathing the empty corridor in an eerie red light. The alarm abruptly cuts off, leaving behind a ringing silence.

Charles hesitates. He could turn around and go back to his room, and roll over and go back to sleep like most everyone else is probably doing right now, but something doesn’t feel right. The alarm may be shut off, but the red lights are still flashing, and no one’s come onto the intercom to give the all-clear. His room wasn’t sealed, which means neither is the rest of the ship. Even if this were some kind of drill, the lockdown still would’ve been implemented and he wouldn’t be standing out in the empty hallway right now.

A glance at the time on the nearest door panel tells him that he’d only been asleep for about three hours. His head still aches but the sensation is duller now, so he chances it and carefully lowers his shields, reaching out through the ship with his telepathy.

He nearly cries out when he’s immediately swamped by a tidal wave of pure bloodlust and rage, coming from several decks below and magnified by over two thousand minds. Charles snaps back to himself, panting. He’d only caught a few glimpses beneath the roaring mob mentality, but they were enough—the inmates are rioting because they’re _free_.

He sprints down the hall to the elevators and jabs at the panel, waiting impatiently for one to arrive, his mind in overdrive. He needs to get up to the bridge and see what’s going on. There have to be fallback procedures, a Plan B, _something_ to be done now that it’s clear that the first set of protocols have failed them.

The lift arrives and Charles dives inside, slamming the button for the bridge and resisting the urge to pace as he rockets upwards. This is some kind of nightmarish, worst-case scenario, especially with everyone not on duty asleep in their beds, oblivious. What the hell are the prison guards _doing_ down there that allowed this to happen?

Charles bounds out as soon as the doors hiss open. “Status report, what’s going on?” he demands, striding forward even though his eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the dark bridge. “Why haven’t you manually enabled a lockdown from the master control system?” He stumbles when his boots catch on something heavy and solid lying on the floor.

He looks down.

Brax has been gutted, stomach slashed open horizontally and his body left to lie in a pool of his own blood, lifeless eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. Charles reels back in horror, boots sliding in blood, and the sound of a scuffle makes him look back up with wide eyes.

“Run, Xavier!” Ramirez shouts, before the dark shape next to him kicks him down to the floor again.

Before Charles can react, another form comes leaping at him from the side, slamming into him and knocking him to the ground. Charles rolls when he hits the floor, kicking at his attacker and lashing out with his telepathy, digging mental fingers into the man’s brain just as he draws back a fist to punch at Charles, willing him to sleep.

The man collapses down on top of him heavily, his body turned to dead weight as he goes under, out cold in the matter of a second. Charles struggles out from underneath him, climbing back up to his feet and readying his telepathy to strike out again, nerves buzzing. His eyes are better adjusted to the dim light now and he can make out that several other men are on the bridge where they don’t belong. Two of them take a step toward him menacingly, and he can see their intent to attack him clearly in their minds.

“He’s a mutant, he’s a mutant!” Ramirez screams suddenly.

Charles has half a moment to wonder who he means before something small but heavy comes flying out of the dark and slams into his throat, choking him with the impact. Charles lifts his hands to tear at the freezing cold metal as it encircles his entire neck, telepathy sparking out wildly in his panic, a few grunts of pain coming from around the bridge as he tears through each of their minds, trying to find the person responsible for the metal band snapping shut around his—

He hears a series of metallic clicks as the metal locks into place, and then something sharp pinches him on the back of his neck and Charles’ mind goes numb.

An inhibitor. He’s wearing an inhibitor collar.

It’s like hitting a brick wall. His telepathy cuts out instantly, leaving him scrabbling at the empty spot in his mind where his power normally dwells. The world goes eerily silent, like someone has slapped thick earmuffs on him, though he’s dimly aware that someone is shouting at him to get down on his knees. Without warning the collar at his throat becomes massively heavy, somehow exponentially increasing in weight without growing any larger and Charles pitches forward, unable to hold his neck and head up anymore as the collar forces him down. He hits the floor on his hands and knees, bent awkwardly forward so the front of the collar rests on the ground, chin tilted up painfully far to avoid having his face smashed into the deck.

“Lights,” someone says, and the bridge’s main lights flicker on, blindingly bright at first until his vision adjusts yet again.

Charles glances around as best as he can. He’s surrounded by four inmates, their status given away by their plain grey prison uniforms. A fifth inmate is still crumpled on the ground fast asleep, and there’s a sixth inmate standing over Ramirez, who also kneels on the floor and stares at Charles with terrified eyes. There’s an inhibitor collar around his neck too.

Of course, Charles realizes with a wave of nausea when his gaze lands on Brax’s body. Ramirez just saved his life by telling them that Charles is a mutant. Brax was only a baseline human.

A sharp crack makes Charles flinch, and the red-skinned prison guard appears in a burst of black smoke. He feels a surge of hope that dies immediately when the devilish mutant merely glances over the scene, unfazed, before turning to one of the inmates and says, “Shaw wants to know if the bridge is secure yet.” His tail is slick with blood that isn’t his.

“You can tell him we have control of the ship,” the man standing by the pilot’s chair replies. He seems completely unfazed by the bloodshed as he pokes at the screens. He must have some rudimentary knowledge of the ship’s systems because he maneuvers through several holograms without pausing, stopping only when he lands on the star chart. As he zooms in on their position, he asks without turning around, “What’s the situation below?”

“We have taken the lower decks. The surviving senior officers have been taken to a conference room on deck six. We have the first officer, the chief engineer, and the chief security officer.”  

“The captain?”

“With Shaw.”

So Huxley’s alive. That’s something at least. Charles tries to push himself to his knees but the collar holds him in place as if it’s been welded to the ground. The man at the star chart gives him a passing glance and then says to his red-skinned companion, “Take these captives down to the cells.”

“Shaw wants you with him as soon as you’ve secured the bridge.”

“Tell Shaw I’m busy making sure we don’t veer off course,” the other man snaps. The way his mouth curves around the name _Shaw_ speaks of some veiled dislike. “He can come see me when I’m done.”

The teleporter shrugs. “Your head, comrade.” He takes Ramirez’s arm and they disappear with a crack.

“Where do you want us to go?” one of the other inmates asks. This one is thin as a pole and would have been short enough to look no older than a teenager, if not for the ugly scar twisting down his cheek. He doesn’t look like much physically but the phaser in his hand makes him dangerous all the same.

The man by the star chart—the leader?—doesn’t seem to hear him. The scarred inmate hesitates, then says, “Erik?”

“Go join the others,” the leader replies without looking at him. “Help them round up the rest of the crew.”

The inmates nod and file out, their boots squelching in Brax’s blood as they step over him. Charles’ stomach heaves but he swallows to try to quell the feeling. In the painful position he’s contorted in, he’s half-afraid he might choke if he vomits.

A crack heralds the teleporter’s return. His hand grabs Charles’ arm but Erik says, “No, not him. Just take the other one and Higgs and go.”

“Shaw will be up here in a few minutes,” the teleporter informs him as he grips the shoulder of the unconscious inmate and the arm of the last crewmember on the bridge, a security officer who’s bleeding from a cut over her eye. She has a collar around her neck as well and Charles knows her, knows they played volleyball on the same team just three days ago, but he can’t for the life of him remember her name and then she’s gone in a whirl of black smoke, leaving him alone with Brax and the inmate manipulating the star chart. Erik.  

“What’s your power?” Erik asks, scrolling through a column of data.

Charles glares at him, wishing his mutation was searing people with his eyes. Facedown as he is, he has to twist his arm awkwardly from underneath him to touch the collar around his neck. When he pulls experimentally at it, Erik glances over at him and waves a hand. The weight disappears so abruptly Charles nearly topples right back onto his ass. He only just manages to catch himself with a hand.

“Your power,” Erik repeats.

“I’m not telling you anything,” Charles says coldly.

The collar constricts around his neck, choking off his voice. He tries to dig his fingers underneath it, but it bites so deeply into his skin that he can feel blood beginning to well up at its edges. For a moment he keeps glaring, determined to be defiant to the last, but when Erik only continues to regard him dispassionately, panic begins to bubble up his chest. Erik’s going to kill him. He’s going to die here, strangled by an inhibitor collar on the bridge of his own ship. He’s going to _die_.

Just when his vision starts to darken at the corners, the collar loosens and Charles collapses to the floor, gasping desperately for air. For a minute, all he can do is wheeze as full consciousness returns.

“I won’t ask again,” Erik says. “You knocked Higgs out without touching him. Psionic of some sort?”

“Telepath,” Charles spits when he has the breath to speak. His voice comes out hoarse and cracked, as if it’s been broken in his throat and torn out.

“Useful,” is all Erik says before returning to his scrutiny of the star chart. Though he’s capable of navigating through the system, he doesn’t seem to know exactly what he’s looking for. He keeps skipping the navigation screen, which is surely the one he wants if he’s plotting a course. That’s something of a relief, Charles thinks. If none of the prisoners know how to fly the ship, then they’ll have to keep the pilots alive. It’s weak leverage but leverage all the same.

After a moment, Charles slowly gets to his knees, then to his feet. If he’s going to die, then he wants to die standing. And if he’s not going to die, then he stands a better chance of putting up a fight if he’s not crumpled on the floor. He very pointedly does not look at Brax lying behind him, though the coppery smell of blood is suffocating and impossible to ignore. _Just breathe_ , he tells himself firmly. _Just breathe and think. He’s only one man and if you can catch him by surprise—_

The teleporter materializes back on the bridge with a crack and Charles instinctively flattens himself against the wall, heart pounding in his throat. This time the flash of smoke has brought with it a new inmate: a tall, older man with graying hair and a face that looks carved from stone. For a moment, he simply glances around, surveying the mostly-empty bridge, gaze skipping right over Brax’s body as if it weren’t there. When his eyes land on Charles, they widen in interest. “Ah. Who’s this?”

“A mutant,” Erik answers. “One of the pilots. We’ll need him to navigate.”

“But we already have another pilot,” the newcomer says, clicking his tongue. He regards Charles with the same detachment one would regard an animal in a meat market, assessing for it for value. “Azazel told me you told him to put the man in a cell.”

“The other one was bigger,” Erik says. “This one looked more manageable.”

_Bigger_. Ramirez is certainly larger than Charles, towering over him by almost a full foot and probably muscled enough to throw Charles across the room. But Erik, with his trick with the collars, could bring even Ramirez to his knees with a flick of his fingers. Erik doesn’t have to worry about how _manageable_ they are.

Unless he means Charles looks more likely to cooperate, in which case he’s going to be sorely disappointed. Charles may be smaller but he’s got no less fight in him.

“And after they lock in the coordinates for us?” the older inmate asks. Shaw, Charles thinks. This must be Shaw, one of the leaders. Or maybe _the_ leader. “They’ll be useless to us after that.”

“No, they won’t,” Erik growls, flicking through more screens. He’s covered the wall with holograms now, pulling up far more clutter than any decent pilot would allow. “The navigation system is more complicated than I imagined and the piloting system will probably be the same.”

Shaw frowns. “You said you’d be able to fly this thing.”

“I _said_ , in the worst case scenario, I might be able to keep the ship on course for a while. But guiding a ship this size with my powers—I can’t do that for the whole journey.”

“Jimenez was a pilot,” the teleporter interjects. “And Aliyev flew military transports.”

“Well, get them up here,” Shaw says. “Let’s see what they can do.”

A puff of smoke and the three of them are left on the bridge. Erik continues to scroll through screens as Shaw walks over to Charles, icy eyes curious. “What’s your mutation—” his gaze flicks down to the silver bars on Charles’ shoulders, “—Lieutenant, is it?”

Charles doesn’t think—he just launches himself at the man, hoping to catch both inmates off surprise long enough to do Shaw serious harm. He manages to get as far as twisting Shaw around into a chokehold before the collar around his throat yanks hard around his neck, throwing him back to the floor. Dazed and winded, he blinks for a moment at the gray ceiling, splattered with blood. Brax’s blood. Bile rises in his throat even as he struggles to draw a breath.

“Spirited one,” Shaw says, stooping over to look Charles in the face.

“He’s a telepath,” Erik says. “I figure he’ll be useful.”

“Telepaths are difficult to control,” Shaw muses. “But I’ve learned that a little pain can go a long way in making a man do what you want.” He steps on Charles’ left hand, and there’s an audible crunch.

Charles screams before he can even think to hold it back. His body lifts up off the deck briefly as he twists, reflexively trying to yank his hand out from beneath Shaw’s foot but Shaw merely grinds his heel down harder with freakish strength, watching Charles with almost paternal amusement as if Charles is a child that has said something particularly precocious and Shaw is fondly indulging him. Agonizing pain lances up his arm as all the fragile nerves in his hand are crushed, thin bones snapping as Shaw twists his foot a little. Charles’ voice cuts out entirely, his mouth still open in a wordless scream while his vision wavers wildly.

Finally, after a lifetime, Shaw withdraws his foot and Charles immediately yanks his hand back to his chest, curling onto his side and cradling it close, a choked whimper hiccupping its way out of his chest. His eyes are wet, a few tears leaking from the corners, and he’s never felt so utterly beaten down in his life.

“Don’t hurt him too badly,” Erik remarks. “He’ll need hands to pilot.”

“And as I reminded you,” Shaw replies, “we have another pilot in the cells.” But he steps away from Charles and moves toward the console where Erik stands.

They converse in low tones but Charles can’t hear them through the thundering pulse in his head. His mangled hand throbs in sharp, painful waves and he doesn’t dare move it, not even to examine it. It’s broken, there’s no doubt about it, and probably in more places than can be counted without an X-ray. He very much doubts that these bastards are going to give him any medical attention.

He’s not sure if he passes out but the next thing he knows, he’s being hauled to his feet. The movement jostles his hand and he sags as agony makes his vision swim. The firm hand on his arm keeps him upright until he recovers enough to keep his balance. Then Erik—and it is Erik holding him—walks him over to the navigation table where the dozens of holoscreens are pulled up.

“These coordinates,” he says, gesturing to a string of numbers hovering near their heads. “Enter them into the system properly so the computer can calculate the fastest route.”

Charles hesitates. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shaw watching him, a predatory gleam in his eye. Holding his broken hand closer to his chest, he mutters, “Fine. But the computer won’t be able to do it alone.”

It’s a lie; the military-grade computer could easily run twenty courses on its own with infinitesimal errors, but Charles’ bluff pays off: Erik says, “So you’ll do the manual calculations.”

“That’ll take time.”

“Then I suggest you sit down and start,” Erik replies, swiveling the chair beside him so that it faces Charles.  

“And I suggest you make it as quick as possible,” Shaw adds. “Or we might get the other pilot up here and make it a contest.”

His threat doesn’t sound empty in the slightest. Trying to ignore the stench of blood in the room and the radiating pain in his hand, Charles sits down and pulls up the navigation screen.

A few minutes later, the teleporter returns with two other inmates in tow. One is a ruddy man who stands taller than anyone else in the room. The other is a diminutive woman with a forked tongue whose words end with faint hisses. They stand by the pilot’s console for a while, discussing the Serenity’s system and its piloting controls. After a long deliberation, the woman sits down in the chair and begins to toy with the screens.

For the first time ever, Charles is insanely glad for the military’s complicated, cryptic systems. All the unnecessarily complex operations and ridiculous redundancies have caused him so much frustration over the years, but now, he wants to kiss them all. The woman fiddles with the screens for a few minutes but almost every command requires pilot authorization and she’s not logged into the system as a qualified pilot. There’s only so much she can do without passcodes and authorization protocols.

Erik hovers at Charles’ shoulder as he works, watching the fingers of his good hand slide across the screens. “How long will this take?” he asks.

“This is far,” Charles replies, “and OZs are unpredictable areas. Plus, there’s not enough fuel for you to make a direct shot to your destination.”

“How long will this fuel last?”

Charles already knows the approximate answer but he writes a few numbers onto the screen with his finger and waits for the computer to churn through them to keep stalling for time. “Another six months, depending on the ship’s speed.”

“Hmm,” Erik says, sounding frustrated. “Keep working.”

Charles glares at him for a moment before complying. As long as he’s on the bridge, he has some amount of control, he reminds himself. Assuming the inmates have no astronavigator among them, it won’t be difficult to undetectably alter the course so that the journey takes longer than it needs to. Hopefully the added time will give IF Command opportunity to assemble a rescue team and come get them the hell out of here.

He’s entering data sets by hand—something the computer can do automatically but he disables the feature when Erik isn’t paying attention—when Shaw walks over to the navigation table. Even the man’s proximity is enough to make Charles tense, his injured hand throbbing in his lap. He glances over Charles’ work quickly enough for Charles to figure that Shaw doesn’t really know what the numbers and diagrams mean. Then he says, “I would hurry this up if you want to keep your other hand.”

“You can’t rush these things,” Charles snaps. “One miscalculation and this ship could go hurtling into the path of an asteroid. Or we could end up floating in deep space without fuel and light years from civilization.”

Shaw gives him a razor-sharp smile and closes a hand around Charles’ shoulder, hard enough for Charles to have to grit his teeth to hold back a whimper of pain. “Then do be careful, Lieutenant. But mouth off to me again and you’ll regret it. You don’t need your legs to punch numbers, you know.”

A shiver ghosts down his spine at the thought and he knows Shaw feels it. The man’s hand tightens marginally and then releases. “Erik,” he says, “let me know when we’re on our way. I’ll be going back down before any idiot tries to start his own riot. And, Azazel, get rid of that body. It’s fouling up the air in here.”

The red mutant moves to obey, and in a moment, Brax is gone, a pool of dried blood the only thing left of him.

With that, Charles is the last officer of the original crew of the Serenity on the bridge. And, he thinks grimly as he spins the star chart around, he’s damn well not going to give this ship up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: some violence between Erik and Charles.

He’s right: the inmates don’t give him any medical attention of their own volition. But they do march him to the prison decks when his duty on the bridge is done and force him into a cell already inhabited by two other surviving crewmembers. One of them is Dr. Hank McCoy, chief medical officer and chief science officer rolled into one.

Charles waits until the inmates disappear around the corner before sinking down onto the lone cot in the cell, his hand shaking with the pain. “Doctor,” he pants. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“You too,” Hank says, dropping hurriedly to a knee beside him. “Are you okay? We thought you might be dead but Ramirez said you made it…” He trails off as his gaze zeroes in on Charles’ mangled hand. “Let me look at this.”

“Please,” Charles says, offering it to him. Though Hank’s massive hands are more like paws than human palms and fingers, he’s gentle as he examines the injury. Even so, Charles still nearly passes out a couple of times when Hank’s claw digs into a particularly agonizing spot, and he’s glad he’s sitting down or his knees would’ve buckled.

“This is a very bad break,” Hank says. “Even an osteogenerator would have some trouble with this. What happened?”

“Shaw—their leader.” Charles grits his teeth. “He stepped on it.”

Hank shakes his head. “I can’t set it, I can’t even stabilize it much. I need details scans to find the breaks, a laser scalpel, an osteogenerator…”

“I don’t think they’re going to let us take trips to medbay,” Charles says with a tight smile.

“You’ve got that right,” the girl in the corner of the cell mutters. Her blue engineering uniform is torn at the shoulder and the dull black inhibitor collar lays starkly against her neck. When Charles looks again, he can see an inhibitor on Hank, too, nearly hidden underneath his thick blue fur.

“Did they only spare mutants?” he asks, feeling sick.

“As far as we know, yes,” Hank answers.

“But Huxley…the senior officers…”

He realizes the reason why they were spared before he finishes: Huxley and senior IF officers could provide valuable intel, and even if the inmates aren’t interested in the information themselves, there are plenty of enemies hostile to the IF who would pay handsome sums to get their hands on an IF captain and his crew.  

Charles pushes himself further back on the cot so he can lean his back against the wall. “What are they going to do with the rest of us?”

The girl in the corner shrugs. Charles has seen her face around the decks but they’ve never spoken and he’s never been introduced. Engineers seldom cross paths with pilots. “Use us as hostages? Hold us for ransom? Use us for sport? Who knows.”

“I don’t think they’re interested in any ransom,” Charles says. He hadn’t heard anything about money while still up on the bridge, at any rate. “At least not anytime soon.”

Hank sits down against the opposite wall. In a cell like this, small enough to be cramped even for Charles, Hank must feel suffocated. The door, originally see-through, has gone glassy white, probably designed with opaque glass that will clear if a guard touches it. The better to keep prisoners under control if they can’t see each other or taunt passing guards, Charles supposes.

“How do you know that?” Hank asks finally, one huge paw rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

“I saw the coordinates of their destination. They’re heading deep into the OZs. Past OZ-118.”

“No one goes past OZ-118,” the girl says with a frown. “There’s nothing out there but the really nasty space bandits and abandoned space stations.”

It’s true. Even the lower number OZs are sparsely inhabited. Further out is home to pirates, outlaws, debtors, and families too poor to own a square foot of land on a planet in the Inner or Core Zones. “Maybe they’re looking for something. Maybe they just want to find an uninhabited planet to take over. I don’t know. But I _do_ know that we’re stopping for fuel at the Gulesson.”

Hank’s eyebrows rise. “The Gulesson? Isn’t that—”

“The notorious pirate stronghold,” the girl finishes, brow furrowing. “No ship goes near the Gulesson. What the hell are they thinking?”

“They’re thinking it’s the only place to get fuel that doesn’t deviate too far from their course,” Charles says, rubbing at his temples. The silence in his head is beginning to ring, like the echo of a bell sounded long ago. He’s only been imposed with this kind of mental numbness a few times before and never for such a long period of time. Inhibitors are regularly used on mutants during examinations and interviews, especially on psionics. Charles had gotten used to it during his time at the Academy. But he’s never been without his telepathy for so many hours at once and its absence makes him feel only half awake.

“Big risk,” the girl says with a frown.

“You’ve seen what some of these mutants can do,” Hank replies quietly. “I don’t think they consider it a risk at all.”

Charles scoots forward to the edge of the cot and glances furtively at the glass door. Though it remains opaque, he still lowers his voice to say, “Look. As long as they’re docking at some point, I think we’ve got a chance.”

The girl scoffs. “A chance to do what? We’re stuck in these cages. They might just kill us before we ever dock at the Gulesson. Even if we could get off the ship, the station will be crawling with outlaws who’d just as soon cut our spines out than help us.”

Hank shakes his head. “Angel’s right. The people on the Gulesson won’t help us even if we could get to them.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Charles agrees. “But the station has comm units and holoscreen consoles. If we can get to one of those and call IF Command, we can direct them to send reinforcements.”

“And how are we getting out of these cells?” Angel asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I make myself useful to them. They need someone to fly this ship and it’s got to be either me or Ramirez. Probably both of us on different shifts. As long as I’m on the bridge, I’ll have a general idea of where we are and what’s going on.”

“Okay, you make yourself useful. What about the rest of us?”

“Just be prepared.”

Angel rubs wearily at her eyes. “That’s not much of a plan.”

“Well,” Charles says, “it’s the best I’ve got.”

They mull it over for a few minutes. Charles is well aware that the plan is less of a plan and more of a shot in the dark, but he’s really not sure if they’re going to get a better opportunity than the Gulesson. The pirate stronghold is six months away, going by the route Charles had programmed into the Serenity’s navigation system per Erik’s demand. A long time to survive in hostile conditions.

Finally Hank says, “We’d better get some rest while we can. There’s no telling what comes next.”

Charles gets off the cot to offer it to Angel, who shakes her head and spreads out in the corner on her back. Hank refuses the cot, too, which is just as well because he’d probably crush it under his weight. So Charles curls up on the hard mattress and cradles his hand to his chest, trying to find a comfortable position.

After some time, the cell lights shut off and everything goes silent save for the constant, low hum of the ship. Charles closes his eyes but he doesn’t sleep.

 

*

 

Hours later Charles’ hand is throbbing agonizingly, traveling up his entire arm in bone-deep waves that make his entire body ache. A high, pained noise grinds its way out of him as he makes the mistake of trying to move, sitting up and nearly passing out when his vision goes white for a moment, biting his lip so hard that he tastes blood in order to hold back a scream.

“Charles?” Hank climbs to his feet from where he’d been sitting with his back against the wall, concerned.

“Hurts,” Charles grunts through gritted teeth, breathing harshly through his nose. Now that he’s sitting up he feels lightheaded and dizzy, and Hank has to catch him by the shoulders when he starts to pitch sideways.

“We need to get you to the medbay,” Hank says grimly after he’s pulled out a penlight from one of his pockets and flashed it in Charles’ eyes. “If they won’t let me reset your hand they’ve got to at least allow me to numb your arm.”

Charles doesn’t have the energy to answer, too busy focusing on not screaming. Hank hasn’t met Shaw yet. He very much doubts the doctor will be allowed to access his hyposprays for the sake of helping any of the injured crew.

“Hey!” Angel shouts through the glass, slamming her fist against the opaque cell door loudly. Charles winces at the noise. “Hey! We need a doctor in here!”

“I _am_ the doctor,” Hank says, affronted.

“I know that,” Angel says, her eye roll evident even though it’s too dark to see her face, “but _they_ probably don’t. Do you want them to come open the door so you can ask to go to the medbay or not?” She bangs on the door again. “Hey! Anyone out there?!”

Charles takes a deep breath, letting it out shakily. The pain is a little more bearable now that he isn’t lying down and trying to cope with it in silence, but he knows that he won’t be able to manage forever without some kind of painkiller. He closes his eyes, trying to block out all the noise Angel is making. Hank tries to take his hand but even the lightest touch feels like fire against his skin. It’s just a broken hand, he tells himself as he blinks back tears of pain. Just a broken hand. He’s had worse before.

“Hey!” Angel shouts, her voice echoing through the cell. “I know you assholes are out there! We need some help in here right no—”

Her sharp inhalation of surprise makes Charles look up. The cell door’s gone transparent, activated by the two burly inmates standing outside. They do not look friendly.

Angel, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. “Finally. Our friend’s hurt and he needs some help. Painkillers or someth—”

“All of you, get up,” the man on the left orders. He’s holding a phaser that looks tiny in his giant hands. The other man isn’t wielding a weapon but he looks no less lethal: the fangs jutting from his mouth look as if they could rip a throat open like a spoon through gelatin.

“Where are we going?” Angel asks, crossing her arms. Though the two inmates tower over her, she isn’t cowed in the slightest, or at least she does a good job of covering it up.

The man with the phaser smiles. With the thick scar nicking the side of his mouth, it looks more like a grimace than anything but his amusement is palpable. “To court.”

There doesn’t seem to be much sense in resisting. They’re marched out of their cell and down the hall toward the lifts, where a crowd has accumulated while waiting their turn. It looks like the other cells have been emptied, too, and Charles’ heart sinks as he takes in the size of the group. So few crewmembers left. Of the original crew, at least a fourth had been mutants but there can’t be more than a hundred uniformed men and women being herded toward the lifts now. Compared to the two thousand inmates, it’s a paltry number. They’ll never be able to retake the ship through brute strength, especially with the inhibitors rendering them powerless.

The rest of the crew seems to have reached the same conclusion because they’re all grim and subdued. Though the hall opens up to a wider area leading to the lifts, it’s still not enough room for so many people and Charles ends up crammed up against a blue shirt and a red one. He clutches his hand close to his chest, fairly certain that if he gets jostled even slightly, he’s going to pass out. He’s unsteady on his feet as it is, in pain, exhausted, hungry, and probably dehydrated on top of that. But Hank is a reassuring presence at his back and Angel is on his left, preventing anyone from knocking into his side. Silently they press toward the lifts, pushed on by the people behind them.

Eventually they’re crammed into one of the lifts with two guards. One of them hits the panel for deck four and up they go, the elevator humming as they rise.

Deck four houses a kitchen, the medbay, the larger gyms, and a few scattered conference rooms. The gym or conference room A6 would be a likely place to hold a meeting with a group this large. But what is Shaw planning to do with them? Surely he wouldn’t keep them alive and collared this long only to execute them. But the inmate had said earlier that they were going _to court_. Charles has never heard two words sound more ominous.

As expected, as soon as the elevator comes to a stop they’re led down to the gym. The inmates have only had control of the ship for at least six hours—that’s the one and only good thing about being forced to wear the inhibitor; its automatic dosage applied every two hours helps keep track of time—but it’s clear that they’ve been busy. All of the gym equipment has been cleared away, shoved off to the sides of the room to leave a large open space that all of the captive crewmembers are herded into. More inmates are here, some perched on top of some of the taller workout machines but most form a crowd around the crew, a jeering and impenetrable living wall that has all of them backing into the center of the room in a tight group.

Charles finds himself smashed up against Hank’s front as everyone crowds in close, and ends up coughing when he accidentally breathes in blue fur so he twists around to get some air. The surrounding inmates are getting increasingly bolder, shouting insults and catcalls as the mob around the crew draws in closer and closer, and through his haze of dizziness and pain Charles has a sudden bolt of clarity: things are going to get very ugly here very quickly if someone doesn’t take control.

Control comes in the form of a loud crack and burst of black smoke, Azazel abruptly appearing on the raised platform that’s been constructed out of a row of treadmills that have been upended and contorted, metal side bars twisted and fused together to create a stable base. Beside him is Shaw, wearing the same indulgent smile he’d worn on the bridge as he’d crushed Charles’ hand and Charles shudders, subconsciously shrinking back.

Shaw’s appearance alone is enough for the crowd to fall silent but Charles doesn’t need his telepathy to sense the anticipatory nature of the mob, a pack of hungry wolves that have cornered an entire herd of deer. Azazel disappears and reappears again in the space of a breath, returning with what looks like the leather chair from Huxley’s office.

“Good morning, esteemed crew of the S.S. Serenity,” Shaw says, perfectly pleasant and enough to make Charles’ skin crawl. He sits down in the chair, relaxed and at ease with one ankle propped up on his knee as if they’re having a casual chat. “My name is Sebastian Shaw, and I’ll be your new captain and commander for the rest of our journey.”

They _are_ in court, Charles realizes while Shaw pauses to look over them all with a steady, calculating gaze, and the inmates are the jury which makes Shaw the judge. Azazel can be the bailiff, he thinks a little hysterically as the red mutant moves to stand just behind Shaw’s chair at his shoulder. Charles tries to crane his neck back, looking around and hopefully not being obvious. None of the senior officers are present. No one is here to contest Shaw, no one here has the authority to try and bargain with him. Charles doesn’t know if this means that Shaw’s still holding them somewhere else or if he’s already had them all executed.

“I’m glad to see that none of you have disputed that fact,” Shaw says with another smile, nodding his head. “That’s good. We’re all going to get along just fine.” He settles himself more in the chair, making a show of getting comfortable. “I’m going to cut right to the chase. You’re all intelligent people, so there’s no need for me to be coy. But first I have a little...demonstration, of sorts, for you all, just to make sure I’m coming across crystal clear.”

The doors to the gym slide open and it takes Charles a moment to recognize that it’s Briscoe, who’s being dragged into the room between two hulking, burly inmates. His face and chest are covered in blood, and it looks like one of his legs is broken, the tattered remains of his uniform shredded and torn. At his appearance the other inmates begin to chant, in a language that Charles can’t understand and stomping their feet to create a menacing, pounding rhythm that mixes with their words and serves to make the hair on the back of Charles’ neck prickle with fear.

For his part, Briscoe is stoic and expressionless as he’s dragged forward and hoisted up on top of the platform to join Shaw and Azazel even though he has to be in even more pain than Charles is. The two inmates force him down to his knees so that he kneels in front of Shaw, on display for the entire room to see, and Charles is filled with heavy dread.

Shaw allows the chanting to go on for a few more seconds, staring down at Briscoe with cold, glittering eyes triumphantly. He lifts a hand and the noise cuts off immediately, a deathly still silence falling that’s broken only by a few helpless, involuntary whimpers from some of the crew.

“Allow me to reintroduce Commander Gary Briscoe to you all,” Shaw says, loud enough to ensure that his voice echoes through the gym. “Most of you will recognize him as our main and most enthusiastic tormentor.”

This isn’t just a show for the crew, Charles realizes as the inmates jeer, worked up to a near frenzy in their bloodlust. It’s a display of dominance for both the crew _and_ the other inmates. Shaw may be a madman, but he’s intelligent. He’s figured out that he has to subdue the crew and keep the inmates happy at the same time or he’ll lose his seat of power in a flash. Not all the inmates are currently present—there’s no way all two thousand of them could fit into one single room on the ship—but enough of them are. They’ll spread the word to others.

Shaw isn’t making himself judge or captain. He’s making himself king.

“This bigot,” Shaw continues, shouting now to be heard over the boos of the mob, “has always gone out of his way to make sure we all knew our place under his tyrannical reign.” His eyes flicker up and he flashes them all a sly grin. “I say it’s past time for him to learn _his_.”

The mob roars its approval and suddenly Charles doesn’t want to watch anymore, sickened. He forces himself to keep looking, though, eyes glued to the back of Briscoe’s slashed-open riot vest.

“However,” Shaw says when the noise dies down again somewhat, “let’s give credit where credit is due. If it weren’t for Commander Briscoe here, we’d still all be locked up with inhibitor collars around our necks. It was so kind of him to give Azazel the sequence for disabling them.”

Behind Shaw, Azazel grins when the mob breaks into raucous laughter and scattered applause. He must have made his move sometime during the day cycle, grabbing Briscoe during a shift change and forcing the code out of him to disable the inhibitors on the prisoners. Plenty of time inmates to organize themselves so they could stage their takeover of the ship during the night cycle with all their powers fully intact.

“Because of this show of generosity,” Shaw says with a wide smile, “I’m going to allow you the chance to beg for your life.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands beneath his chin. “I’m waiting.”

Charles can’t see Briscoe’s face from where he’s standing but it’s clear that the man is refusing to play Shaw’s game, remaining defiantly silent. The mob of inmates shifts restlessly, muttering starting up as both Shaw and Briscoe remain motionless on the platform, staring each other down. They’re being deprived of the bloodshed that they wanted, and the longer Shaw makes them wait for it the more likely they are to riot to kill Briscoe on their own. Charles himself feels like he’s waiting on tenterhooks, nervous apprehension for what is surely to come.

“What’s the matter?” Shaw asks silkily, leaning forward even more so that he and Briscoe are inches apart. It’s like watching a Tatooinian pit viper closing in on a womp rat. “You were always so full of insults whenever we spoke before. Don’t tell me you’ve gone mute now.” He reaches forward to trace a finger along Briscoe’s jawline. “Or is it pride? Are you too proud to beg me for the chance to keep your pathetic life?”

Shaw’s touch is what does it in the end, not any of his words. Briscoe snaps his head back like he’s been struck, pulling back from Shaw’s hand. “Fucking mutie,” he snarls, “get your fucking hands off me, I’ll make sure that Command _burns_ you for this—”

Almost gently, or so it appears, Shaw puts his hand on Briscoe’s chest. His words cut off in a gargle and someone in the crew screams when a loud, stomach-turning crunch echoes through the gym as Shaw puts his entire fist straight through Briscoe’s body.

Charles swallows bile as the inmates erupt into cheers, stomping and chanting and rattling the gym equipment until it’s impossible to hear anything else above the noise, the frightened crewmembers pressing even more tightly together. Charles never thought he’d ever be glad to be separated from his telepathy but now he’s relieved—at least right now he can’t feel any of the fever-pitch emotions of the inmates as they give another resounding roar when Shaw stands to pull his fist back out of Briscoe’s lifeless body and kicks him off the platform. Three of the inmates fall on the body at once, punching and kicking it and Charles is glad he can’t see the rest over the tops of everyone’s heads.

“I pride myself on being a merciful man,” Shaw says when they’ve finally calmed again, some of the red haze fading, and he has the gall to sound remorseful, shaking his head pityingly. “But that wasn’t convincing at all.”

The inmates all laugh, and then Charles can practically feel it when one by one all of their attention refocuses on the crew, leering with anticipation.

Shaw sits back down, settling himself in his chair and idly wiping off his bloody hand with a rag that Azazel provides. “So,” he says, pleasantly cheerful as he addresses the crew again, “now that we’re all indisputably on the same page, let’s get right down to it.”

Charles swallows, the taste of fear bitter in his mouth. Around him his fellow crewmates shift uneasily, bracing themselves for Shaw’s next verdict. Somewhere to his left someone is sobbing quietly, and Charles doesn’t blame them—they’ve all been unwittingly thrust into the total anarchy of the prison world, left to the mercy of the lunatic who has risen up and appointed himself leader.

“Shh,” Shaw says, a mockery of soothing, “you all are our fellow brothers and sisters. There’s no room for human scum on this ship, but none of you are lesser beings. You’re all superior like us.”

Perfect, Charles thinks wildly, as if he wasn’t already fanatic enough.

“In fact,” Shaw goes on, doing his best impression of a rueful smile, “one can even go so far as to say that _we’re_ all at _your_ mercy. You see, someone needs to keep this ship up and running, and I’m afraid that my friends and I just aren’t qualified for the task. We’re all lucky to have you professionals here, aren’t we?”

The inmates laugh and nod along, playing along. Shaw has them all perfectly under his thumb now.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to take our time and sort through you all. Most of you will be put to work at your original posts, and you will comply. It’s a fair enough trade, don’t you think, in exchange for your life? I’d hate for any of you to follow in the late commander’s footsteps.” Shaw shakes his head mournfully. “Truly unfortunate.”

“Where are we going?” someone dares to ask, safely hidden in the crowd.

Shaw smiles knowingly. “Ah, yes. Our final destination. That’s for me and my most trusted lieutenants to know and for you not to worry about. I know you foolhardy military types, you know. I don’t want any foolish acts of bravery or escape plans. You’re well beyond help now, my friends, so you may as well grasp at the chance I’m giving you. Obedience will be rewarded. Anything less warrants...punishment.”

Charles can’t bear to look at the faces of the people surrounding him as the reality truly sinks in for them all. They’re trapped, millions of light years from home and with no hope of contacting anyone from the IF. They still have three months before the Serenity is due to show up at the prison in OZ-48; as long as Shaw can use the officers’ clearances to make the proper check ins, no one will realize that the Serenity has been compromised until then and by then, they’ll probably be so deep in space that no one will be able to trace them.

He’ll never see Raven again, Charles thinks numbly as sorrow wells up from somewhere deep in his chest. He’ll never get to meet his niece or nephew, he’ll never get to exchange gossip with Moira, or see his other friends. He’s not going _home_.

And his telepathy—Charles has to gulp in a huge breath of air to keep from descending into full-on panic—he’s going to live out the rest of his life, however short it may be, with an inhibitor collar on. Blocked from his power. The way Shaw is talking, maybe those crewmembers who cooperate and prove their newfound loyalty to Shaw will be accepted into the fold and allowed to have their inhibitors removed, but Charles knows he won’t. He can’t. He refuses to bow down to the likes of Shaw.

There’s still the matter of the ship needing to refuel, he reminds himself, taking another deep breath of air in hopes of calming his suddenly racing pulse. When the Serenity has to stop and fill the rest of her fuel tanks, that’s going to be their one and only shot of at least getting out a plea for help. Their chances are slim, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better to have _something_ to pin hope to than nothing at all.

“You said most of us will be put to work,” someone else says, and Charles’ recognizes Darwin’s voice. The engineer is calm and collected, his face even and expressionless as he stares up at Shaw, but Charles knows he has to be just as close to being lost in hopeless despair as everyone else in the crew is. “What happens to the rest of us?”

Shaw smiles. All of his smiles so far have been highly unpleasant no matter how polite or well-mannered he makes them, but this one actually makes Charles’ skin crawl. “We’re in for a long flight. _Someone_ has to entertain the boys.”

That causes a stir in both the inmates and the crew, the inmates laughing while several shouts of defiant outrage go up. Charles merely reels in silent horror while Shaw smirks, evidently amused by the entire thing.

“Don’t worry, ladies, the burden won’t fall solely to you,” Shaw says over the din. “In fact, I promise that a good number of you will be spared. I know my compatriots very well. Prison has given them all a new set of tastes.” He wags a finger at the jeering inmates. “Don’t get too worked up, gentlemen. You only get to play with the toys if you can be trusted not to break them.”

“This is bullshit,” Angel says beside Charles weakly. Her face is drawn and pale, shoulders slumped; the fight gone from her at last. Charles wishes he had some sort of reply.

“And now to business,” Shaw says crisply. “Is there a doctor in the house?”

Charles is standing so close to Hank that he can feel him stiffen, and hear him draw in a breath. “Here. I’m the chief medical officer.”

Hank’s distinctive appearance makes him easy to spot and Shaw’s attention focuses in on him unerringly. The crowd in front of them shrinks instinctively away from his gaze, and Shaw’s smile widens as his eyes land on Charles. “And there’s our resident pilot. How wonderful.”  

Charles glares back with everything he has, letting his hatred for Shaw surge forward and burn his fear away. It’s not hard to hate a monster.

Shaw merely seems amused. “I’ll come back to you in a moment, Lieutenant.” His gaze snaps back to Hank. “How many other medical staff are on this ship?”

“There were nine others,” Hank says tightly, his clawed hand curling into a fist.

“All ten of you step forward, then.”

“They can’t,” Hank growls, “they were human.”

“Then step forward alone, doctor,” Shaw says above the murmuring, grinning widely like a crocodile, “I haven’t got all day.”

Charles opens his mouth to say something to Hank, but then stops—what is there to say? All of their coworkers and friends are dead, and only for the crime of being human. He stands still, mute and exhausted while Hank visibly squares his shoulders and gently pushes his way through the crowd of remaining crewmembers to approach Shaw’s platform.

“You’re going to need a competent doctor,” Hank says flatly, “and unless one of you is in for severe medical malpractice and would therefore know what they’re doing despite their unethical tendencies, I doubt anyone is more qualified than me.”

“I do believe you’re our man,” Shaw replies conspiratorially, as if he and Hank are in on a joke. “We’ll be monitoring you, of course, but consider yourself permanently on call.”

“Just let me back into the medbay,” Hank says, unimpressed, “and let me take a look at Lieutenant Xavier’s hand. And anyone else who was injured during your uprising, for that matter.”

“I don’t think so,” Shaw says jovially, shaking his head with a small chuckle. “Azazel, see that the good doctor is settled in his medbay and can’t get himself into any trouble. We’ll send people along as we choose.”

“His hand needs to be set,” Hank argues, narrowing his eyes, “the longer we put it off, the higher chance there is of permanent da—”

Azazel disappears with a crack and reappears beside Hank a split second later. He puts a hand on the doctor’s shoulder and this time they both disappear, Hank’s words cut off mid-sentence.

Charles feels himself flush with anger when Shaw’s gaze slides back to him in amusement. It’s clear on all levels that Shaw doesn’t intend to send him to Hank today, and maybe not at all.

“Lieutenant Xavier,” Shaw says, testing out Charles’ name in his mouth as if tasting wine. “Step forward. And you, our other esteemed pilot.”

Charles straightens his spine, keeping his injured hand cradled against his chest as he walks forward. The crowd parts to let him pass but Charles doesn’t dare glance to either side to catch any of their expressions, focusing only on walking up to the base of the platform. He can see Ramirez joining him in his periphery but keeps his gaze on Shaw.

“Two pilots,” Shaw says musingly, looking them up and down like they’re pieces of meat in a market. “Seems redundant, doesn’t it?”

“You can’t expect one of us to fly the ship alone,” Charles bites out, Ramirez frozen beside him, “there’s a reason there were _six_ of us to begin with.”

“Nonsense,” Shaw admonishes, taking on the tone of a teacher lecturing a particularly unruly student, “you won’t be alone. You’ll instruct men of my choosing in how to operate the systems and they’ll be more than enough to make up for your…” He wrinkles his nose. “Your former pet humans.”

“No,” Charles snaps, “we’re not teaching anyone how to fly the ship. You need both of us.”

Shaw chuckles again, and now that he’s so close to the platform Charles can see that none of his projected warmth doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes, which remain cold and hard, long dead stars that have devolved to remorseless black holes. “You seem very sure of your solidarity with your fellow pilot, Lieutenant Xavier. You may be eager to test my patience, but is he?” His gaze shifts to Ramirez. “Teach my men to pilot this ship and you’ll be spared. Otherwise I’ll let them gut you and I’ll keep Lieutenant Xavier instead—and I already know how to get results from him,” he adds with a smirk down at Charles’ hand.

“I’m sorry,” Ramirez says shakily, staring straight forward at nothing, “I don’t—I don’t want to die. God, I don’t want to die, I’m sorry, Charles—”

“See?” Shaw says to Charles magnanimously, falsely rueful as he looks down at them both from his makeshift throne. “It’s very much survival of the fittest in these parts, now. Or I should say, survival of the smartest. He’s willing to cooperate and you are not, which leaves me with the unfortunate dilemma of what to do with you now.” He sighs as if heavily burdened. “It does seem like such a waste to kill a fellow mutant.”

Charles will not beg for his life—he will _not beg for his life_ he tells himself fiercely, glaring up at Shaw if only to hide the slap to the face Ramirez’s betrayal is and the growing horror he can feel welling up inside him. Shaw’s going to kill him. He can’t be put to work on more menial tasks with a ruined hand, not when there are still plenty of other uninjured people still left.

“Let him suck my cock!” a lewd voice from the far side of the gym shouts, and Charles’ insides turn to ice.

“Now there’s an idea,” Shaw pretends to muse over the sound of laughter and a few other catcalls, eyes glittering, “I won’t deny that you’re easy on the eyes, Lieutenant Xavier. Much softer than what my compatriots are used to.”

“No,” Charles says, hating how he’s unable to keep a small waver out of his voice, “I’m not—I _refuse_.”

“My dear lieutenant,” Shaw says, mockingly kind, “I’m afraid that you don’t have a choice. I did promise them new toys.” He sits back in his chair, waving a hand with a grand gesture. “Who wants a turn first?”

Charles flinches at the immediate roar that rings out through the gym, lurching forward instinctively to—what, _run_? There’s nowhere for him to run _to_ , he thinks wildly even as the two burly inmates that dragged Briscoe in earlier grab him, holding him in place even when he mindlessly struggles, panic making the edges of his vision grow dark and fuzzy. The inmates are all shouting, vying for the chance to fuck him, and above him Shaw soaks it all in with a grin, making a show of sweeping his gaze around the room thoughtfully, deciding on who to choose.

“I want him.” A cold, clear voice cuts through the noise and the room falls silent.

Charles whips his head up. The telekinetic from the bridge—Erik, his memory supplies—steps forward out of the crowd, moving like a shark through a school of minnows: everyone steps quickly out of his way. He’s not looking at Charles, unwavering gaze pinned on Shaw as he comes to a stop by the corner of the platform a few feet away.

“You want him.” Shaw tilts his head slightly, almost reptilian in his consideration.

“I helped you stage this breakout,” Erik answers coolly, “I secured the bridge for you. It’s only fair if I get something in exchange.”

Even the other inmates recognize Shaw’s own words being parroted back to him, murmuring amongst themselves as they watch the scene unfold. Though he hides it well, Shaw isn’t pleased; it’s easy enough to see that he wasn’t planning on this. He doesn’t have much of a choice, however, not after he spent so much time making his grand speech of the fairness of exchange in the first place. He can’t afford to seem weak or wishy-washy, not in front of this crowd.

Which means Charles is still just as trapped, too.

“You’ve never expressed interest in a bed warmer before,” Shaw remarks breezily, trying a new angle. Charles wonders why he hasn’t already agreed to letting Erik go first, especially since he was just looking for someone to do the honors only moments ago.

Erik lifts his shoulders briefly in what passes as a shrug. “Your bit on fairness got me thinking. I do deserve something nice in return for helping you. And you said so yourself,” he adds coldly, the challenge clear in his eyes, “this one _is_ pretty.”

“Fuck you,” Charles snarls, finding his voice again, yanking against the sweaty grip of the two inmates on either side of him. They give him a good shake, jostling his hand in the process and making him give an aborted gasp of pain.

Erik ignores him. “I want him,” he repeats calmly to Shaw, “and I don’t share. Either you give him to me and he stays only mine in exchange for the services I provided in helping your plans along, or you’ll have proven that none of us can trust your word.” He pauses, no doubt making sure the concept really sinks in for the other inmates. “And if that’s the case, it might already be time for a change in leadership.”

“Erik, Erik, Erik,” Shaw says with a small laugh, shaking his head. “No need to get ahead of ourselves. Of course I’ll give him to you. He’s all yours. Just as I said, cooperation and obedience will be duly rewarded.” His voice is warm and fond and again Charles is reminded of an indulgent parent, just like on the bridge. His eyes tell a different story, however; their expression suggests that Shaw isn’t pleased and that Erik will wind up paying for this sometime later. “I expect you’ll put good use to my gift, however. It would be _very_ disappointing to deprive everyone else of his use if he’s just going to go to waste.”

“You can count on it,” Erik says flatly, and then Charles feels a sharp tug on the inhibitor collar around his neck, pulled out of the inmates’ grasp by an invisible leash and he half-stumbles across the short distance to where Erik stands.

“Looks like he wants to get right down to business, doesn’t he, boys?” Shaw asks loudly and gets a chorus of laughter in response while Erik wraps one long-fingered hand around the wrist of Charles’ uninjured hand and begins to pull him away from the platform, back towards the gym doors.

Charles doesn’t fight his grip, in too much shock to protest the way he’s being dragged along behind Erik through the crowd of inmates like a wayward child. He doesn’t see anyone’s face or expression, his vision tunneled down to only take in the back of Erik’s head while the inmates call out suggestions to Erik as they pass, ranging from comments on Charles’ mouth and ass or what positions Erik should use when fucking him. He absorbs none of it, letting the words wash over him and pass through his ears unheard while he drifts behind Erik as if on a cloud, and then suddenly he’s left in a ringing silence when the gym doors hiss shut behind him.

It’s like breaking a spell. Charles throws himself into action, coming back alive and thrashing in Erik’s grip, digging his heels in and ripping his arm out of Erik’s hold. Erik, clearly not expecting a fight after Charles had come so willingly at first, doesn’t manage to catch onto him quickly enough, only just beginning to turn back around when Charles has already whirled and taken off in the opposite direction down the hall.

He makes it about three steps before the collar at his throat is suddenly wrenched painfully sideways, choking him as it slams against the wall and takes his entire body with it, pinning him awkwardly in place. Charles tries to straighten and pull away from the wall even as he coughs, but it’s like the collar has been welded in place, leaving him dangerously exposed and helpless.

He feels rather than sees Erik glide leisurely up behind him, taking his time since Charles clearly isn’t going anywhere. “This will go a lot easier if you don’t resist.”

“I’m not going to make any of this _easy_ for you,” Charles spits, still trying to push himself up off the wall even though it’s futile. He keeps struggling anyway, because doing anything less feels too much like giving up and giving in. “If you think I’m just going to lie back and spread my legs and let you—”

Erik swears under his breath, and then with a loud crunch Charles’ collar drags itself up the wall by a couple inches. Now Charles has to stand on the very tips of his toes to keep from choking, body pressed flat against the wall in order to keep his neck from snapping in the awkward angle.

“I don’t expect you to enjoy your new position,” Erik says icily after Charles has been left to pant for a few moments, heart fluttering madly where it’s trapped pressed up against the cold metal wall, “but I _do_ expect you to follow everything I say. You got off easy with me, Lieutenant. You were about to be passed around like a party favor.”

“Am I supposed to view you as a hero?” Charles snaps, voice strained. His broken hand is throbbing again—it never exactly stopped throbbing, but he’s more aware of it again now that he isn’t staring down Shaw and upwards of three hundred other inmates who are all intent on doing him harm. It doesn’t help that he’s banged it multiple times now during his struggling, either. He’s feeling dizzy again, wanting nothing more in the world than to lie down in his bed and go to sleep, and then hopefully wake up from this nightmare. “A rapist is a rapist. You’re no better than the rest of them.”

“Believe what you want,” Erik replies flatly. Very suddenly Charles’ collar is no longer magnetized to the wall and he stumbles backwards until he hits the opposite wall. “You can either follow me or I’ll drag you along like a dog. Your choice.”

Charles glares at him, resisting the need to lift his good hand to rub at his neck where the collar has rubbed his skin raw. “I want to see Dr. McCoy,” he says, not budging an inch. “My hand is broken and it needs to be set.”

“You’re a fool if you think Shaw is ever going to let the doctor fix your hand,” Erik answers bluntly. They’re entirely alone in the hallway but he still seems to take up so much space, tall and imposing with a razor-sharp gaze that’s leaving Charles feeling flayed where he stands with his back pressed against the wall like a cornered animal. “Even if I do take you to the medbay and let the doctor give you a cast, Shaw will only break it again. Or break your other hand.”

“Can I at least have painkillers?” Charles snaps. “Because if not, I’m going to pass out right here and you’re going to have to carry my body to wherever we’re going.”

There’s a second of silence, like Erik is deliberating on a proper response. Then he’s moving, lightning quick, slamming his forearm against Charles’ throat and pressing him into the wall. Choking, Charles tries to grab instinctively at his arm but the moment his injured hand hits Erik’s elbow, his whole body goes rigid with pain. He blacks out for a few seconds and the next thing he knows, he’s on his knees with his hand pressed closely to his chest, gasping for breath.

“You’re already more trouble than you’re worth,” Erik says. He sounds every bit as callous as Shaw and the thought that he as good as _owns_ Charles in the fucked up prison hierarchy that’s taken over the ship makes Charles want to vomit.

“So kill me,” Charles snarls. When he’s breathing normally again, he steadies himself against the wall behind him and stands, determined to look Erik in the eye as he says, “Because I’m not going to stop being trouble for you until you do.”

Erik meets his eyes for an unbearably long moment. He’s utterly unreadable, which makes Charles wish all the more that the collar around his throat weren’t so effective. If he had his telepathy, he could spear into Erik’s mind with ease and end this. End _everything:_ the killing of crewmembers, the prison breakout, Shaw’s reign of terror. He’s never felt so thoroughly useless in his entire life and he _hates_ it. He hates being powerless, in every sense of the word.

Erik’s eyes flick down to the collar and Charles braces himself for death by strangulation. It won’t be quick or painless but he would prefer it to being endlessly raped by Shaw’s vulgar underlings or tortured to death.

He almost gives a hysterical laugh at the thought. So it’s come to this: he’s selecting the best way to die.

Erik reaches out and wraps one hand around the side of Charles’ neck, his thumb resting lightly on the collar just under Charles’ Adam’s apple. “The sooner you realize that fighting me won’t get you anywhere, the easier this will be. I think you know what I just saved you from.”

“Yeah, so I can be your personal fuck toy instead of everyone’s,” Charles sneers. He reaches up with his good hand and wraps his fingers around Erik’s wrist, squeezing hard enough that Erik’s mouth tightens. “Am I supposed to be _thanking_ you?”

Erik’s expression remains maddeningly neutral. He doesn’t care at all, Charles realizes with a chill. Charles is a plaything to him and if that plaything won’t cooperate then he’ll throw it away without wasting a second.

“If that’s the way you feel,” he says, “then go back. Shaw will find a new use for you soon enough.”

When Erik pulls away, Charles lets him go. But he doesn’t move away from the wall. He can’t. As much as he hates the situation he’s in now, his circumstances will be a thousand times worse if he hands himself over to Shaw again. The only rational choice to be made here is to follow Erik quietly and do as he’s told long enough to find an opportunity to break away. Though it fills him with helpless fury, he has to concede that Erik’s right: things will go easier if he doesn’t fight. At least not yet.

“That’s what I thought,” Erik says after a minute. “Now will you walk or will I have to drag you after all?”

Charles walks, stiff and angry. They take a lift up to deck two and head toward the crew quarters. The hall, which is usually bustling with some traffic, what with people coming in and out for shifts, is completely empty now and unsettlingly silent. There’s dried blood on the floor and on the wall in some places, and Charles is reminded of nothing more than the old horror holovids he and Raven used to watch when they were kids, trying to prove that they were brave enough to face gory stories. They’d nervously laugh off the grisly scenes and then end up sleeping in the same room anyway, terrified and unwilling to admit it to each other. But this isn’t a horror story he’s watching now, it’s reality. And he really is fucking terrified.

They stop outside one of the larger doors reserved for senior officers—the first officer’s quarters. Though there’s a keypad, Erik doesn’t bother with it: he waves a hand and the lock undoes itself with a click. As the door slides open, Erik gestures for Charles to enter first and follows right on his heels, too close for comfort. The hiss of the door as it closes feels like the sealing of a coffin.

Charles stands rigidly by the door as Erik walks past him and says, “Lights.” Immediately the overhead lights flick on, illuminating the rooms. Senior officer quarters are quite a bit larger than normal quarters but they’re still furnished the same way: holoscreen terminal by the left wall, storage closet on the right, bathroom door next to it, a square table with four chairs in the center of the chamber, and finally a bed pressed flush against the back wall.

It’s the last thing that Charles hopes doesn’t catch Erik’s attention, at least not immediately, and it seems like he’s in luck for now: Erik seems more interested in exploring the food compartments in the storage closet than in the bed. With his attention focused elsewhere, Charles feels marginally more secure about stepping further into the room, though he’s still ready to leap to the defensive if Erik makes any threatening movements.

Besides more space, the one thing that these quarters have that Charles’ didn’t is a window facing out on the starboard side of the ship. It’s a reinforced pane that stretches along the headboard of the bed, more long than it is tall, and it affords a beautiful view of the black space outside. Millions of stars gleam in the distance, silent and eternal. Normally Charles feels comforted by the sight of stars but right now, all he can think is that no one will ever find them. Space is just too _big_.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Erik says from behind him. When Charles looks over, he’s settled in one of the chairs by the table, a glass of water in hand. “Shaw will be expecting me to make good use of you so he won’t come looking for a while.”

Though Charles would like to remain defiantly standing, his exhausted body wants nothing more than to sit. Neither the remaining chairs by the table or the bed is particularly appealing, so he walks to the chair by the holoscreen terminal and sinks down into it. He gives the holoscreen half of a considering glance before leaning his arm against the table’s edge and putting his head into his good hand. Even if he wanted to access the terminal, it’s undoubtedly password locked and Erik would stop him in a heartbeat. Besides, Shaw’s probably cut all outward communication lines.

The plan to reach a comm unit at the Gulesson is still their best shot then. Charles just has to keep himself alive until then, which means submitting to…whatever Erik wants to do with him.

He eyes the bed, dread curling thick and heavy in his gut. It’s a bigger bed than the one in his own quarters and there’s plenty of room for two. He hopes Erik will make it quick. Maybe he’ll just fuck Charles’ mouth. As long as it isn’t drawn out, Charles thinks he can handle it. At least it’s only one man and not the entire prison population. Small mercies.

He waits for Erik to move toward the bed or order him to get up, but no command comes. Erik drains his glass of water and then continues to sit by the table, his eyes distant. Charles instinctively tries to reach a tendril of his power out to feel for Erik’s general mood but it’s like groping his way through a pitch black, empty room. There’s nothing for him to touch, nothing to latch onto. Just silence.

“Your telepathy,” Erik says finally. “How strong?”

Charles hesitates. At this point, his greatest advantage is that they underestimate him. He knows he’s not tall or brawny or even very mean-looking, and that works in his favor in tough spots. If Shaw and his men think he’s weak and relatively harmless, then eventually they’ll let down their guard, giving Charles a chance to act.

Erik gives him a cool look. “I can see you thinking, Lieutenant. Don’t lie to me. All I have to do is open the personnel files to find out the truth and if you’re less than honest with me, then I will be less than kind with you.”

“Personnel files are locked.”

“You’re stupider than I expected if you think a password lock can stop me or Shaw.”

Charles grits his teeth. He’s growing very tired very quickly of being backed into corners. “Omega class.”

Erik merely acknowledges this with an eyebrow raise, nodding once thoughtfully and apparently otherwise content to leave it at that.

“You’re telekinetic?” Charles asks after a pause. Anything to keep the conversation going, stilted as it is. Anything to keep Erik’s thoughts from turning to the bed.

For a long moment it seems as if Erik isn’t going to bother with a response, but then he lifts a hand and Charles automatically flinches, bracing himself for the inhibitor collar to wrench painfully in any given direction or tighten around his throat. If Erik even notices he doesn’t comment, instead calling over the small silver knickknack that the former occupant of the room kept on the desk, floating it in midair over the table.

“Only metal,” he says absently, and Charles finds himself mesmerized as he watches the figurine melt before his eyes, becoming a long stream of liquid metal that twirls lazily through the air, making shapes and patterns. Erik can do more than just move metal, Charles thinks as he watches the metal resolidify into a perfect miniature replica of the Serenity before melting back down again, he can resonate with its very molecules. He could probably take the entire ship apart around them right here in the middle of space and kill them all.

At least that might answer the question as to why Shaw wants to make nice with Erik, even though it’s clear he doesn’t like him.

Charles winces at the sudden sharp pinch at the back of his neck, his collar doing its job and administering another dose of the inhibiting drug on schedule. It brings him back to the present, snapping him out of his daze where he’d been a little zoned out while watching as Erik’s power makes the metal flow in the air. Erik seems to have forgotten about him entirely, still utterly focused on sending the metal spiraling overhead in tighter and tighter coils. It probably feels good to stretch his power like that, because who knows how long Erik’s been incarcerated with his abilities locked away.

He’s utterly exhausted and his hand is killing him, a localized pain that nevertheless feels like it’s spread through his entire body so that every inch of him aches. He can feel his eyelids starting to droop, weighed down like ballast and threatening to drag the rest of him down too. Charles tries to fight it, his nerves still buzzing with imminent and immediate danger; Erik hasn’t used him yet, and will probably want to soon. There’s no way Charles is going to let Erik take him by surprise while he’s asleep, either. But try as he might, pure exhaustion is slowly winning out over both pain and fear, his body’s desperate need for rest as inevitable as the changing tides.

It should be okay to close his eyes for just a moment. Just a second. Erik’s still preoccupied with his metal, and Charles will hear him if he moves to stand up. In the meantime Charles can just let his eyes rest for a little. Just for a moment…

He’s asleep before he even realizes it.

 

*

 

Charles wakes curled on his side in the middle of the bed, comforter thrown haphazardly on top of him for warmth. He jolts upright, automatically reaching for his telepathy with the intent to lash out to defend—

It’s like running into a sliding glass door. He slams into the barrier between him and his power, the impact leaving him momentarily stunned even while his brain kicks into panicked overdrive, scrambling frantically for his telepathy that he can’t hope to reach and oh god he fell asleep and he’s in the bed, which means that Erik—

“Relax, I didn’t touch you.” Erik’s voice comes from across the room, where he’s seated in front of the holoscreen.

Charles pats himself down with his uninjured hand. He’s still fully dressed, every last button and zipper done up. Nothing hurts any more than it did before he passed out, and the wave of relief that hits him is almost enough to make him want to sag back down into the sheets. Erik hasn’t fucked him.

Then the pain from his hand sets back in, and this time it’s like being hit by a truck. Charles doubles over where he sits, unable to stop a pained whimper from forcing its way out past his lips, his vision blurring. It _hurts_ , every nerve-ending in agony and when his vision clears enough for him to be able to look down at his hand, his skin is an angry red color, inflamed and swollen.

He doesn’t even notice Erik’s gotten up until he’s standing beside the bed, holding out a glass of water. Charles starts, jerking back instinctively from the newfound proximity, and Erik must be able to read his expression fairly well because he huffs out a sigh. “You’re already drugged up to the gills with the inhibitor, I don’t gain anything by drugging you more.”

“Isn’t that the same glass you were drinking out of earlier,” Charles mumbles, but he can’t help but stare thirstily at the water. His mouth is tacky with how dry it is.

“Just drink the water, Lieutenant,” Erik says with a roll of his eyes, the most expressive Charles has seen him thus far, and holds the glass out further.

Charles takes it with his good hand and nearly spills it down his front in his haste to drink it, gulping the water down all at once despite how tall the glass is. He’s panting slightly for breath by the time he lowers the empty glass slowly.

“What time is it?” he asks hoarsely, not entirely expecting to be answered.

“Almost the middle of the night,” Erik answers, reaching back towards him. Charles shrinks away but Erik merely plucks the empty glass out of his hand and walks away towards the table.

Charles is left reeling while this bit of information sinks in. It’d been _morning_ when he, Hank, and Angel had been dragged out of the cell and led to the gym to face Shaw. It means he’s slept the entire rest of the day and half of the night away, utterly defenseless.

Despite the fact that Charles couldn’t have fought back if Erik had tried to force himself on him, Erik hadn’t touched him. Erik hasn’t even given any indication so far that he wants to.

Charles studies his captor for a long moment, trying to puzzle out the angles of their situation. Erik claimed him from Shaw, but why? Why risk Shaw’s displeasure if all he wasn’t interested in Charles at all?

“Ask.”

Charles frowns. “What?”

Erik glances briefly at him. “You look like you have a question. Ask it.”

Is this a trick? If so, Charles can’t see what Erik would gain from it, so he dares to ask, “What do you want from me?”

The prospect of an answer both terrifies and relieves him. He doesn’t want to hear Erik actually put to words what he has in store for Charles. But even concrete knowledge might be better than this icy uncertainty.

Erik regards him silently for a few long moments, and his face might as well be carved from stone for all Charles can decipher it. “Nothing,” he answers at long last, setting the glass down on the table with a loud clink, “yet.”

Charles licks his lips, an unconscious motion due to the fact that his lips are dry and chapped from dehydration. Erik’s eyes follow the movement unblinkingly. “That doesn’t tell me—you said I could ask.”

“And that implied I would answer?”

Charles glares at him. “Don’t be _childish_.”

“You’re exceptionally easy to rile, Lieutenant,” Erik says, maddeningly calm, and leaves things at that. He rounds the table and goes back to the desk, sitting down at the holoscreen with his back to Charles.

Charles huffs out a small breath but decides not to press his luck. He doesn’t entirely like the idea of remaining on the bed—it feels much too vulnerable—but getting up means either sitting at the table, which is closer to Erik, or choosing a spot on the floor and Charles’ body aches enough already. He gathers up the entire comforter around him, bundling himself up tightly against the chill in the room, and settles as far back on the bed as he can with his back against the wall, cradling his hand against his chest.

He isn’t sure how much time passes; less than two hours at the very least, since he hasn’t yet felt a pinch from the collar, but nevertheless it feels like an eternity while he sits and waits for something to happen, for Erik to get up, for Erik to come back over to the bed, for Erik to drag him down by his collar and take what he wants. Charles is still exhausted, and just about delirious from the pain in his hand that continues to throb agonizingly while he sits with nothing else to distract him except his fear, but refuses to let himself fall asleep again. He’s still thirsty, one glass of water not nearly enough to make up for the at least 24 hours he’s gone now without anything else, and hungry too, but that’s all secondary to the pain.

He can’t focus on anything else, his entire universe narrowed down to his hand and the fight to not give in to sobbing. Charles has never by any means been a wimp when it comes to exertion or other injuries he’s picked up here and there over the course of his life, but this is all but pushing him to his limits. What’s worse is the knowledge that there’s a fully functioning medbay only two decks down from where he sits, and he has no way of reaching it at all.

Erik’s sudden movement across the room makes Charles jump even though all he’s doing is standing up and stretching briefly, grey prison overshirt riding up his slender hips. “Get up.”

Charles blinks at him blearily. “What?”

“Get up,” Erik repeats, leaning down to flick off the holoscreen before turning around to face Charles. “We’re going out.”

“Out?” Charles asks, still not quite understanding. For a split second it looks like he’s being stared at by two impatient Eriks instead of only one.

Erik mutters something that sounds very unflattering under his breath and crosses the room in five long strides, coming to a stop once again by the side of the bed. “Get up now,” he says, pointedly slow, “or I’ll drag you up and I guarantee you won’t like it.”

Charles hesitates, considering resisting because as far as he knows Erik is merely going to take him to the nearest airlock and throw him out it. He feels his collar twitch under Erik’s power and that gets him moving, clumsy and sluggish as he extracts himself from the blankets and gingerly levers himself up off the bed to his feet as far away from Erik as possible, swaying when his head spins.

“Are we going to the medbay?” he asks tiredly without really meaning to. At this point he might almost be willing to beg. Almost.

“No,” Erik says flatly. He crosses back over to the doorway, and Charles only notices just now that he’s actually welded the door shut when he waves a hand to undo his work so the door can hiss open. “Follow me. If you try to run, I _will_ drag you.”

“If you use the same threat over and over again it becomes less scary,” Charles mutters to himself, mostly on the account that Erik has already stepped out into the silent hallway. He follows at a slower pace, holding onto his arm tightly and resigned to not having much else of a choice. Since it’s the middle of the night, no one else is around, and as they pass by the other officer quarters Charles wonders who else has taken up residence here now.

Shaw could be very close by. Charles tries to tell himself that his shiver is because the ship is bloody cold.

Erik leads him into the elevator and taps the button for the eighth deck. Charles’ stomach plunges at the same rate of their descent, his brain conjuring up a new crop of horrors for what awaits him next. The cells he and the rest of the surviving crew had been kept in last night had been on the seventh deck, which means that most of the inmates must still be living out of their cells on decks eight and lower. Maybe Erik really doesn’t want to fuck Charles himself and instead intends to lend him out to people he needs to...exchange with. Anything’s possible, at this point.

“Stop trying to make yourself hyperventilate,” Erik says into the stony silence, and has the audacity to actually sound annoyed.

“I’m not _trying_ to do anything,” Charles manages to gasp out, sucking in air like he’s drowning. “Where are we going? What are you—what are you going to do to me?”

Erik looks like he’s holding back a sigh. “Relax. I’m not going to—”

“Don’t tell me to relax,” Charles spits, jolting backwards the three steps it takes his back to hit the far wall of the elevator even as it comes to a stop and the doors hiss open. “People have been killed, murderers and rapists are currently in control of the ship, and I’m trapped here with _you_ —”

Erik’s on him in a flash, crushing him flat against the wall and pinning him solidly with his body when Charles tries to struggle, slamming a hand down across his mouth when he sucks in a breath to shout. “Keep your voice down,” he snarls in a low voice, the angriest Charles has heard him, “unless you want to attract the attention of those murderers and rapists you fear so much.”

Charles remains tense in his grasp, glaring at him fiercely but otherwise too tired and weakened by pain to fight back for long. Erik’s stronger than him by far, as he’s proven over and over again, and he holds Charles in place until Charles’ breathing evens out again, exhaustion making him go obediently limp.

“You don’t have to trust me,” Erik says tightly, meeting Charles’ glare unflinchingly, “but do as I say and we won’t have any problems.”

Charles doesn’t even have the energy to point out how many things are fundamentally wrong with that statement. Instead he nods, and Erik lets him go, stepping back to put distance between them once again.

“Come on,” Erik says, turning for the exit, “ _quietly_.”

Charles follows Erik out into the hallway beyond. Like the seventh deck, the eighth deck is doorway after doorway leading into holding cell after holding cell, lining a long hallway that seems to stretch into eternity. It’s nearly pitch black here, the main lights cut for the sake of it being the night cycle, and the only sources of light left are the small, glowing strips imbedded in the floor to guide them along the hall. This time Charles follows so closely behind Erik that several times he nearly trods on Erik’s heels as he trails Erik down the corridor, nerves on edge and waiting for someone to come looming out of the darkness ahead of them or for hands to grab him from behind.

Most of the cell doors have been left propped open, snores drifting out. They pass one cell where the unmistakable sounds of two people fucking reach Charles’ ears, soft grunts and low moans making him reassess how closely he’s keeping to Erik and allow an extra pace or two to separate them again. Most of the inmates that aren’t in Shaw’s selected group must still be living in their cells, which makes sense. There are only so many officer and other crewmember quarters, and there are far more inmates than crew.

His boots are crackling softly as he walks through something sticky coating the floor, and then Charles is glad that it’s too dark to see anything properly.

Erik comes to a stop outside one of the cells that has remained closed, the glass turned opaque for privacy. He taps once on the glass, muttering, “Open up. It’s me.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and then the cell door slides open a crack to reveal a suspicious eye that glares up at him. “Yeah, so? What the fuck do you want, Lehnsherr? It’s the middle of the goddamn night.”

“Would you just let us in,” Erik says tersely, already lifting a hand to pull the door open wider by its metal mechanisms.

“Fucker,” is the grumbled answer, followed by, “ _us_?”

Erik shoulders his way into the cell, and not wanting to be left behind out in the hallway alone Charles quickly follows, feeling infinitely better when the door shuts behind him, enclosing them—safely?—inside the cell.

“Who is it, Logan?” a sudden female voice with a heavy, drawling accent asks sleepily, and Charles is momentarily blinded when a lamp clicks on, bright light flaring up suddenly in the dark.

When the spots finally clear from his eyes, Charles gets a better look at his new surroundings. There’s no mistaking the fact that they’re standing in a cell, the tiny space cramped enough already with two small, flat beds nailed to opposite walls with what passes as a toilet in the center against the back wall. Apparently some of the upper deck common rooms have been looted because there’s also a side table with a lamp and even a mini holoscreen crammed together on top of it, as well as a few extra pillows and cushions scattered on both of the beds.

Standing up and facing them with his arms folded is perhaps the most compact yet heavily-muscled man Charles has ever seen in his life. He’s much shorter than Erik but doesn’t seem to realize it, head cocked back to regard Erik with an expression of deep annoyance and barely-there tolerance, a fat and unlit cigar poking out of the corner of his mouth between his teeth. When his gaze shifts to Charles, he lets out a loud snort. “What, did you pick the runt of the litter or something?”

“He’s a telepath,” Erik says shortly while Charles fumes; the man isn’t much taller than he is. “A pilot, too.”

Logan grunts in acknowledgement. “Can’t trust telepaths. They’re slippery as eels. I would know, I dated a girl once whose sister was one.”

“Why are we here?” Charles asks loudly, or at least his voice sounds loud in the small space. He’s already at the end of his rope, and if Erik brought him all the way down here in the middle of the night to be insulted, Charles has just about had it.

“Good question,” Logan agrees, gaze snapping back to Erik, “as proud as you must be to show off your new pet telepath, couldn’t it have waited till the morning?”

“Logan, he’s hurt.” A girl unfolds herself from where she’d previously been curled on one of the beds, squeezing forward in the tight space to stand next to Logan and peer at Charles curiously. She’s wearing the plain grey prison uniform too, and her long dark brown hair is pulled over one shoulder in a braid, a single streak of white woven through it. “What’d you do to his hand, Erik?”

“Shaw,” Erik says simply, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does. “Can’t take him to the medbay or Shaw will know. I was hoping that you’d oblige, Rogue.”

“She doesn’t have to do anything,” Logan snaps.

“You both are going to owe me anyway, if this works out,” Erik says icily, his voice losing any vestiges of politeness as he addresses Logan again, “so consider this an insurance payment. He’ll be useless to us if he can’t function.”

“It’s alright,” Rogue says before Logan can argue, “I don’t mind.” She offers Charles a smile, and her face is naturally pretty, brightening the room by several notches despite their desolate surroundings. “I’m Anna Marie. Pleasure to meet you, honey.”

“Charles Xavier,” Charles says stiffly, still not entirely sure what’s going on. If earlier today was a nightmare, he now feels like he’s stepped into some sort of strange dream, standing in a prison cell that’s trying its best to be homey. “What—what are you doing?” he asks quickly when she steps forward and gently pries his arm away from where he presses it against his chest with two gloved hands.

“I’m going to fix you up, Charles, good as new,” Anna Marie promises him, deftly feeling along the back of his hand and making a small soothing noise when he flinches. “It _is_ going to hurt like the devil, but then I promise it’ll be over.” She makes a soft dismayed sound, shaking her head. “He just about pulverized it, didn’t he? You poor thing. Logan?”

“Right here, darlin’,” Logan mutters, sticking out his arm like he’s offering it up for an IV. “Make it quick. Goddamn Lehnsherr interrupting my sleep for _this_.”

“Hush,” Anna Marie orders absently, letting go of Charles’ arm briefly to pull off one of her gloves. Charles half-expects her hands to be vibrantly colored, but both her hands and skin are normal and plain. “Ready?”

“Go for it,” Logan grunts.

Anna Marie places her hand on Logan’s offered forearm, and Charles takes a step backwards and runs right into Erik when Logan’s skin begins to sizzle, flesh burning off his bones in a matter of seconds. Logan snarls in pain, three long, razor-sharp claws bursting out of his skin at his knuckles but otherwise somehow he manages to hold still.

“Erik?” Charles asks, eyes huge, because now he definitely has no idea what’s going aside from the fact that he does not want Anna Marie to touch him and inflict more pain on him than he’s already in.

“Might want to gag him, Erik,” Anna Marie says as she withdraws her hand from the ruins of Logan’s arm, “he’s definitely going to scream, and we don’t want him to bite through his tongue neither.”

“Sorry for this,” Erik mutters in his ear, and then reaches around to grip Charles by the throat. Startled, Charles opens his mouth automatically and it gives Erik the chance to shove a rag in his mouth, holding the ends on the outsides of Charles’ cheeks and pulling it taut between his teeth, pinning his tongue down in place and holding Charles trapped even when he starts to thrash, tossing his head and trying to struggle away.

“It’ll be over soon,” Anna Marie promises, and then she reaches out and takes Charles’ injured hand.

Charles _screams_ , the pain increasing tenfold and he’s not aware of how his knees instantly buckle, how Erik has to catch him with one arm to keep him from collapsing to the ground even as he writhes, how Anna Marie keeps a death grip on his hand despite it all. All he knows is that his entire hand, arm, body is on fire, and everything hurts so much, they’re going to kill him—

Charles doesn’t remember blacking out either, but when he comes to he’s lying on his side on one of the beds with his head pillowed in Anna Marie’s lap, her gloved fingers stroking gently through his hair.

Nothing hurts.

His hand is healed. All his bones are realigned and fused back together as if they were never broken in the first place, his nerves, ligaments, and tendons left undamaged. His entire body feels wrung out, like he’s just run for hours without stopping, but there’s no more pain.

“Where’s the kid?” Logan is asking when Charles gradually becomes aware of voices speaking quietly overhead. He could sit up, or he can continue to lie here for a little while longer and let Anna Marie pet him like he’s a child. It feels good, comforting in a way the past 24 hours have not been at all.

“Hopefully he’s secured an engineer like I told him to,” Erik answers, sounding like he isn’t about to get his hopes up. “I didn’t stick around to watch the rest of Shaw’s theatrics.”

Logan grunts in what must be agreement. “We’ll find out tomorrow, I guess.”

Despite the fact that he slept for over twelve hours earlier, Charles finds his eyes slipping shut again. He still feels exhausted, even more so now than earlier when his hand was a constant throb of agony. Whatever Anna Marie did to him wore him out and apparently wore her out as well: when he glances up at her out of the corner of his eye, her face has lost some color and her breathing is slow and lethargic. Her fingers carding through his hair lulls him into a reluctant doze. _Stay awake_ , he tells himself sternly. _You have to listen to what they’re saying, you can’t fall asleep at the mercy of criminals. There’s no telling what they’ll…_


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes to darkness. The lamp is off and when Charles’ eyes adjust, he realizes he’s alone.

Surely they couldn’t have been so stupid as to leave him here alone without anyone to guard him. Charles could just…leave.

Warily, he gets up from the bed and stands in the middle of the cell for a moment, fully expecting Erik or one of his friends to burst back in and snap at him for daring to budge even an inch. But no one appears so Charles creeps toward the door and lays his hand cautiously against it.  

A glance at the locking mechanism tells him the inmates have modified the cell doors so that they can be bolted from the inside rather than out. It’s a clever reversal. Charles’ first thought is that they must have someone trained in basic engineering working for them. His second is, _Or they forced one of the engineers to do it before they killed them._

At that thought, he hesitates. Much as he’d like to take this golden opportunity to escape, he has no idea what lies beyond this door. Just remembering the trek down the hall makes his skin crawl. Erik might not have touched him yet but he’s certain some of the men down here have no such qualms. If he’s caught wandering by himself, he won’t be free for long.

Still. Will he ever have another opportunity like this again? He could take the chance but it all comes down to what the hell he’s going to do once he’s free of Erik. Hide? They’re six months away from the Gulesson. There’s no way he’ll be able to evade capture for that long and as soon as Erik or Shaw finds him, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’ll either be dead or wishing he was.

No, he can’t run. Not yet.

Forcing his muscles to relax, he returns to the bed and sits down, back to the wall. After a while, he figures he might as well get as much rest as he can and lies down.

He’s still awake when someone knocks on the door. Heart suddenly thumping hard against his chest, he sits up, ready to grab the lamp off the desk and use it to club whoever comes through the door.

“It’s just us,” comes Anna Marie’s voice. “Let us in.”

Not other prisoners coming to try to snatch him and carry him off to their lairs. He can’t believe he’s living in a reality where that’s actually a concern.

He unlocks the door and Anna Marie and Logan shoulder their way in. Logan doesn’t pay him any attention as he stalks to the other bed and settles down in the nest of pillows on it. Charles doesn’t pay him any attention in return because Anna Marie’s captured his focus entirely: she’s carrying a bag in her hand, its plastic sides thin enough for him to see the contents within.

Anna Marie grins when his stomach growls audibly. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” he admits, following her to the empty bed. They sit down opposite of one another and Anna Marie begins to unpack the bag.

It’s a paltry selection. A few canisters of water, some bland all-purpose pastes designed to fill you up, and a handful of sealed bags of dried fruit. “They haven’t worked out a cafeteria system yet,” Anna Marie says wryly. “We’re living off scavenged rations.”

From his bed, Logan snorts. He’s lying on his back with his eyes closed but he’s undoubtedly listening to every word. “Get used to it. Shaw doesn’t give a shit about what goes on down here as long as we don’t trash the place.”

“Shaw hasn’t come down here?” Charles asks.

“No,” Anna Marie replies, handing him a bag of dried fruit. “Like Logan said, Shaw doesn’t care much about the rest of us as long as we don’t get in his way. He moved all his favorites to the upper decks with him. The rest of us…well, we get the cells.”

“Which is fine,” Logan says. “If I had to see that slimy bastard preaching in my face, I’d throw myself out an airlock.”

Crossing his legs, Charles tears the bag open and starts to pick through the contents. Dried fruit isn’t his favorite food in the world but right now it might as well be. Even a crisp of dried banana tastes delicious and he savors the flavor. “Not everyone’s fond of Shaw, are they?”

Logan snorts again and turns over so that his back is to them. End of discussion, Charles assumes, but Anna Marie answers, “Shaw isn’t popular with everyone, but no one will fight him. He’s too strong.”

Charles’ left hand aches at the thought. “What’s his mutation?”

“He never says exactly, but the best we can figure is that he absorbs energy and redirects it.” She gives him half a smile. “It’s hard to take a hit at him when he just turns your blow against you.”

That explains how easily he’d broken Charles’ hand and how he’d killed Briscoe. Such violence must be effortless to him, so long as he absorbs enough energy to sustain himself.

“And Erik?” Charles asks.

“What about him?”

“He’s…what? Shaw’s right-hand man?”

Across the room, Logan snorts. “Sure, bub. If you say so.”

Anna Marie hands Charles one of the tubes of paste, shaking her head when Charles looks like he might balk. “Uh-uh, Lieutenant,” she says matter-of-factly, “eat at least half of it right now, and then you can save the rest for later. You need more nourishment than just dried fruit, after last night.”

Charles makes a face, but obediently pops the cap off the top and squeezes some of the sticky paste in his mouth, trying to get it as far down his throat as possible without choking himself to avoid tasting it. According to the label, this one is supposed to taste like apple pie, but to Charles they all always taste what he imagines stale pancake mix might taste like.

“Thank you,” he says belatedly, after he’s managed a few mouthfuls of paste. His stomach already feels fuller. It’s a relief. “For this, and for last night. Your mutation is...something else,” he admits, “but I’d rather not do that ever again.”

Anna Marie grins. “No?” She cracks open one of the water cannisters and takes a swig before offering it to him. “And you’re welcome. It’s nice to do good with my mutation, fickle little bugger that it is.”

“What exactly can you do?” Charles asks, curious despite himself. He accepts the cannister and takes a long drink, wiping his mouth on his sleeve when he’s done. Canned water is definitely an acquired taste, but between this and the paste and dried fruit, as far as he’s concerned they’re having a feast.

“I can briefly absorb other people’s powers and use them,” Anna Marie explains, “like last night, when I borrowed Logan’s regeneration power to fix you up. Show him your arm, Logan.”

Without turning around Logan raises his arm up in the air briefly before letting it flop back down on the bed. His skin is completely healed, unblemished with no traces of horrible burns.

“So we make a pretty good team, in that respect,” Anna Marie says with a nod, “it just has the unfortunate side effect of hurting like hell.”

“That’s amazing,” Charles says, meaning it, “both of you.”

“You think so?” Anna Marie smiles brightly. “Aren’t you just the little flatterer.”

Sheepish, Charles rubs his face to avoid answering. It hasn’t escaped him that she hasn’t mentioned the foot-long claws that Logan keeps somewhere within the backs of his hands, and nor has she explained why she apparently likes to wear gloves constantly when not actively using her powers, but Charles doesn’t push. They’ve been kind to him, and Charles feels _safe_ here, even though they’re obviously both convicted criminals. He honestly can’t imagine whatever it is that Anna Marie has done to earn a sentence. It’s probably best that he doesn’t try.

There’s a short, sharp rap on the door and then the locking mechanisms undo themselves, the door sliding back far enough for Erik to slip inside. Just like that, Charles’ feeling of relative safety disappears in the blink of an eye, his whole body tensing.

“Morning, Erik,” Anna Marie greets him cheerfully, unaware of how Charles’ pulse has begun to race, fight or flight instincts warring for first place even though there’s nothing he can do in the case of either. “How’s it looking topside?”

“Calm for now, but sooner or later they’re going to get bored.” Erik sounds unconcerned by this. His eyes meet Charles’. “Let’s go.”

 _Can’t I stay here?_ The words are on the tip of his tongue but Charles bites the inside of his cheek to prevent them from blurting out. He already knows the answer to that. Numbly, he climbs to his feet, a little shaky at first on his legs and trying to avoid knocking any of the leftover food off the bed. He jumps when he feels a hand brush against his leg, but Anna Marie only winks at him as she slides the apple pie-flavored paste tube into his pocket.

“Thank you again,” he manages to get out, his voice sounding far calmer than he feels.

“Don’t you worry about it,” Anna Marie assures him gently, “we’ll be seeing you again sooner or later. Though hopefully not because you’ve gotten hurt again,” she amends. “See you, Erik.”

“Rogue.” Erik gives her a polite nod. “Logan.”

Logan grunts. It seems to be his primary method of communication.

“You have to pretend that your hand is still broken,” Erik says to Charles just before he opens the cell door again, “can you manage that?”

“Yes,” Charles answers without argument. It’s already been made very clear what will happen if Shaw or any of his lackeys find out that his hand has been healed.

Without replying, Erik cracks open the cell door and steps out into the bright hallway, so Charles has no choice but to follow him.

It’s quiet in the hallway, or at least quieter than Charles had expected. The main lights are back on, making it easier to see the dried bloodstains on the floor and flecks of blood splashed onto the walls as they walk down the long hall towards the elevators. Charles keeps his eyes focused straight ahead squarely on the middle of Erik’s back between his broad shoulder blades, not daring to glance sideways into any of the open cells as they pass. He can feel the inmates watching, though, their gazes heavy on him and their muttering growing louder and bolder.

A group of them are hanging out in the hall just in front of the elevator doors, leaned casually against the walls as if they’re not waiting for Erik and Charles’ approach. Charles inches closer to Erik as they draw near, not wanting to be separated by any means, even though it’s not like he can trust Erik very much either.

“Oy, Erik,” the man in the lead calls, loud enough for his voice to echo down the hall so everyone else can hear, “you let the Wolverine and his witch have a turn with him, but what about the rest of us?” His skin is tinged green and as he speaks, a long tongue darts out between his lips, reaching up to lick over one reptilian eye before shooting back into his mouth.

“I knew he looked like a screamer,” another man murmurs appreciatively, flexing fingers that have too many joints while he rakes his eyes up and down Charles’ body, “I heard him last night. Oh, the _sounds_ I could pull out of you—”

“Out of the way,” Erik says coldly, coming to a stop where the lizard-like man stands blocking the hallway. Charles comes to a stop next to him close enough for their shoulders to brush, but he can feel the other inmates slowly closing in behind them, leaving them trapped in the middle.

“Come on, Erik,” their leader cajoles, “fair is fair. You let me fuck your pretty little pet’s face, and I let you pass. Kind of like paying a toll. Nice and easy.”

The men around them are laughing with hungry anticipation, drifting in closer, and Charles shudders in revulsion, fear tight in his chest. He wishes desperately for his telepathy, anything so that he can defend himself from what’s about to happen. He starts when fingers ghost across his backside, knocking into Erik who merely wraps iron fingers around his biceps to hold him still.

“Last warning,” Erik says icily, never looking away from the man directly in front of him, “get out of my way.”

“Pay the toll, Erik,” the man snarls, “or his face won’t be the only one I’ll fuck—”

The light panel overhead flickers and goes out as electrical wires burst down from the ceiling, dropping like vine snakes to wrap around the inmates and haul them off their feet, screaming and choking as the wires pull tight and leave them dangling helplessly. Erik drags Charles through their writhing bodies to cross the short distance to the rest of the elevator, pulling the doors open with his power and practically throwing Charles inside.

“Consider it paid,” Erik says to the struggling inmates, loud enough for everyone poking their heads out of the cells watching to hear too. “I’ll let your floormates decide what they’d like to do to you while you’re otherwise indisposed.” He steps into the elevator and jabs the button for deck two.

Charles sags against the far wall as they begin to rise, closing his eyes and breathing. He wants to go home, he thinks with a longing fierce enough to make hot tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t allow any of it to escape, pulling himself together and letting his heart rate gradually slow. He can feel Erik watching him, but neither of them say anything for the entire duration of the trip.

They make it back to Erik’s quarters without any other incidents, the hallway in deck two mercifully empty. Charles almost feels relieved when they reenter the now-familiar room, right up until he remembers that he still has no idea what Erik’s going to do to him, especially now that they’re alone again and Charles’ hand is fixed.

Erik, however, doesn’t spare him a second glance, seating himself once again at the desk in front of the holoscreen, where Charles can see the schematics of the ship have been pulled up. Charles stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, a bit at loose ends for what to do with himself but then his eye catches on the half-open bathroom door.

“Can I take a shower?” he asks, feeling a little ridiculous for having to do so in the first place. Still, he’s not eager to find out what will happen if he makes any kind of movement without Erik’s permission.

“Do what you want,” Erik replies absently, far more interested in the Serenity’s blueprints. Then he adds, “Don’t give me any reason to think I have to come in there.”

“No,” Charles agrees hastily, and then he’s tripping into the bathroom and shutting the door tightly behind himself, flicking the lock on even though he knows it means nothing in the face of Erik’s abilities. It still makes him feel better regardless.

The shower does help a little. Charles, who has never really been a fan of sonic showers, activates the option for water and stands unmoving underneath the spray for a long few minutes, just letting the hot water wash the tension from his muscles. Water showers have always reminded him of home and the yearning hits him twice as strong as usual now, after everything he’s been through. When he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s in the bathroom at home, enjoying a nice long shower after spending a day out with Raven and Irene. There’s a park near his apartment they like to walk in that’s adjacent to a whole strip of shops and restaurants. Some of his favorite days with them consist of spreading a blanket in an empty patch of grass by one of the park’s fountains and watching clouds float by, or napping in the sun. After months working in space, doing nothing for a while is glorious. When he focuses, he can almost imagine the warmth of sunlight on his face and the sound of Irene’s laughter in his ears as Raven tickles her like she loves to do.

It’s easy to convince himself he’s not crying under the hot spray of water. The stress of the last day feels like a heavy weight hanging on his breastbone, and his breathing sounds harsh and grating as it echoes in the narrow shower chamber. Bracing his hands against the wall, he lets himself have a moment to just let his guard down.

As soon as he relaxes, he’s shaking, little tremors running up and down his body. He forces himself not to fight it; if he can run off all this anxiety in here, hopefully he’ll be steadier when he has to go back out there. The last thing he wants to do is show Erik any vulnerability, especially when he’s still so unsure of Erik’s intentions.

He’s in the shower long enough for him to expect Erik to tear the lock off at any moment and burst in demanding what’s taking so long. But nothing of the sort happens. After a while, the trembling stops, he scrubs himself clean, and he climbs out of the shower to dry himself off. His uniform is sweaty, dirty, and spotted with flecks of blood, so he leaves it discarded on the bathroom floor and opens the compartment beside the sink. Sure enough, there are extra clothes here: black casual duty attire worn off-shift.

Since Kirseth, the first officer, was taller and broader than Charles, his clothes hang baggily off of Charles’ frame no matter how he tries to style them. Resigned to the fact that he looks like a child drowning in his father’s clothes, he combs his hair quickly with his fingers and takes a deep breath before unlocking the door and stepping back into the room.

Erik hasn’t moved an inch in the hour Charles spent in the shower. He’s still looking at schematics but only of specific sections now. Charles can’t recognize the sector of the ship without a closer look but he doubts Erik will let him peek over his shoulder. So he just hovers by the bathroom door for a long few minutes, wondering if Erik has anything to say to him. When nothing seems forthcoming, he crosses the room to settle in one of the chairs by the table, a little relieved when Erik doesn’t even glance his way.

The rest of the day passes unbearably slowly. Charles has never been very good at sitting still without anything to occupy him, and not even being able to brush idly across passing minds makes the stillness so much worse. There’s a reason he’s always toying with the navigation table when he’s on duty on the bridge. It used to drive some of his old copilots up the wall, but he can’t for the life of him sit by his pilot console and stare blankly out at the stars for hours on end, no matter how much he likes stargazing, and he can only spend so long lost in his own thoughts. Even when they were children, Raven used to say that the best way to punish Charles was to shut him up in a room by himself with absolutely nothing to do.

For a couple of hours, he watches Erik intently, waiting for the man to move from his chair, waiting for an order to get on the bed. But eventually his focus starts to waver and as the hours tick on, he starts to suspect that Erik doesn’t even remember that there’s someone else in the room. There’s only so much tension the body can sustain and he hits his limit somewhere in the afternoon, when his stomach’s growling forces him out of the chair and back to the bathroom, where his discarded uniform still lies crumpled on the floor. He fishes around in the pockets for the paste Anna Marie had slipped him earlier and then carries it back as nonchalantly as possible, slightly afraid Erik might snatch the food from him. But Erik continues to ignore him so Charles settles back on his chair and swallows down three mouthfuls of the tube before the awful taste makes him stop.

“You can take the bed,” Erik says without looking away from the holoscreen.

Charles freezes, his heart suddenly pounding double-time. Was that an invitation or an order? If he takes the bed, will Erik understand it as implicit consent? If he _doesn’t_ take the bed, will Erik punish him for his disobedience?

Erik turns slightly in his chair to look at him. “Stop thinking. I said you could take the bed because you keep fidgeting in that chair and it’s distracting me. So either take the bed or stop moving.”

Charles stares hard at him. “What do you want from me?”

“As I said earlier, I don’t want anything from you yet.”

“But you will want something from me at some point in time.”

“Astute of you, Lieutenant,” Erik says, his tone dry. And he turns back around.

Charles has spent long enough cooped up in a room with Erik by now for some of his fear to burn off into frustration. “So you won’t tell me,” he says boldly.

“No, I won’t.”

“Will you at least tell me if…” For a second the words lodge in his throat. With an effort, he swallows down the lump and pushes out through clenched teeth, “Are you going to rape me?”

Erik shakes his head without looking away from the holoscreen. “No.”

“How can I believe you?”

“You can’t.”

“And if I get on the bed…?”

“As long as you’re not making noise then I don’t care what you do. But try to escape and I will let you go. I think you can imagine what would happen to you without my protection.”

“And I think that’s an empty threat,” Charles retorts. “You’ve already said you want something from me and I don’t think you’ll let me go until you get it.”

Erik does turn back around at that, his eyebrows drawn together and his head slightly cocked. He studies Charles for a long moment before he says, “You’re getting a little impertinent, Lieutenant.”

“I told you to fuck off in front of Shaw’s court,” Charles says snidely. “I don’t know why you’re surprised now.”

For a second, he’s afraid he’s gone too far. Erik’s unreadable eyes narrow, and Charles can almost feel the collar constricting around his neck, reprimand to be delivered swiftly and unmistakably. But then Erik’s lips twitch up in faint amusement and he says, almost rueful, “I did know what I was getting into, didn’t I.”

This time when he turns away, Charles doesn’t speak again, too startled by the crack in Erik’s emotionless mask to say anything more. He’s seen his captor taciturn and angry and cruel but amusement seems incongruous with Erik’s very personality. And yet.

After another few minutes, Charles stands up. Erik continues working at the holoscreen and doesn’t look up as Charles moves slowly toward the bed, one measured step at a time. Erik hadn’t touched him all day yesterday when he’d slept through most of the day, he reminds himself. It won’t hurt to relocate to the bed now, for comfort’s sake.

He sits down at the front of the bed with his back to the headboard and, when nothing happens, allows himself to lie down. His back, cramped from sitting so long in the chair, lets him know that it fully appreciates the new position and would like never to move from it again. So Charles lies there with the covers drawn up to his chest, listening to Erik’s slow, steady breathing across the room.

The warmth and coziness of the bed almost tricks him into submitting to the relaxed sleepiness that creeps over him. His eyes are just starting to drift shut when Erik leaps from his seat and bounds toward the bed. Alarmed, Charles scrambles up and off the edge of the bed, nearly losing his balance when his left leg tangles up in the covers. Fear and horror flood over him as Erik grabs for him, his power closing around the collar on Charles’ neck and hauling him close in a painful yank. Desperate, Charles kicks out at him and makes solid contact with Erik’s stomach, knocking Erik back toward the other edge of the bed. But his grip on the collar doesn’t loosen, and Charles chokes futilely against it as he tries to escape.

“Stop it,” Erik snarls under his breath, winded by his blow. “Shaw is coming down the hall and if he doesn’t think you look used, he’ll ask questions. So stop struggling and take off your clothes, _now_.”

Charles hesitates for only half a second. It could be a ploy to get Charles in bed but Erik doesn’t need tricks when he could overpower Charles with a flick of his fingers. And the threat of Shaw’s scrutiny makes Charles move more quickly than he imagined possible, tearing his shirt and trousers off and throwing them to the floor. “On the bed,” Erik whispers, and Charles obeys instantly, crawling under the covers and lying down, his heart pounding painfully against his chest. He’s lightheaded with adrenaline and terror so when Erik says, “Lie still and pretend to be asleep,” it’s nearly impossible for him to stop himself from shivering and relax his muscles enough to give the semblance of sleep.

Eyes closed, he can hear Erik move toward the door just as someone knocks on the other side. There’s a long pause before Erik pulls the door open with a scrape of metal, and Charles fights the urge to crack one eye open to peek. Just be still, he tells himself furiously. Be still.

“Erik, my boy,” Shaw greets him, and Charles wonders at how such a monster is able to put that much warmth and friendliness in his voice.

“What do you want, Shaw,” Erik asks emotionlessly, unmoved. Charles recalls how Logan had scoffed at him when he’d asked if Erik was Shaw’s right-hand man, and while it’s not hard to see that there’s some form of tension between Erik and Shaw, Charles still isn’t sure. Erik has made it very clear multiple times now that he helped Shaw orchestrate the entire prison breakout, playing a vital role in its success, so Charles doesn’t know what to make of their relationship.

“I just wanted to stop by and see how my neighbors were doing,” Shaw answers pleasantly, and Charles has to force himself not to shudder at the thought of Shaw living just next door. He’d suspected it, of course, but having confirmation just makes things worse. “Are you going to let me in, Erik? We’re not in prison anymore, we can afford to be civilized.”

Erik doesn’t answer, but Charles doesn’t have to have his eyes open to know that Erik isn’t happy. Even so, Charles hears the sound of footsteps drawing nearer before the door hisses shut, which means that Shaw is now in the room. At least he doesn’t hear the telltale scrape of metal that signals Erik’s sealed the door shut, which is good. If Erik sealed them in the room with Shaw, Charles might start screaming and not be able to stop.

“Oh, look.” Shaw’s voice is closer now, and it takes all of Charles’ might not to shrink away and continue lying still and limp with his eyes closed, utterly defenseless. “I take it you’ve worn our little lieutenant out.”

“Our?” Erik repeats, cold but dismissive, making it clear that he finds the term laughable at best. “He’s passable.”

“Only passable?” Shaw muses, and then to Charles’ horror he hears booted feet walk closer to the bed and when Shaw speaks next, his voice is right overhead. “I confess I expected higher ratings than that. He _is_ so very pretty.”

Charles doesn’t know how he’s still able to keep his breathing slow and steady but somehow he manages, even while his heart races at a million miles a second.

“What do you want, Shaw?” Erik asks stiffly after a moment’s pause. He sounds like he’s trying not to grit his teeth and only partially succeeding.

“I heard a rumor that you lent this pretty little plaything out to James,” Shaw answers silkily. Charles has half a moment to wonder who James is before his heart creeps up into the vicinity of his throat when he feels a hand settle nearby on the bed. “Say it isn’t so, Erik, especially after you made such a huge fuss in front of everyone about not being one to share your toys.”

“I’m not,” Erik says evenly, and Charles suddenly wants to vomit at the thought of how calm and casual they both are while they’re standing over his supposedly sleeping body and having this conversation, “but I owed Logan a favor. It was only practical.”

“I see.” Shaw’s tone gives nothing away of what he really thinks, which is dangerous. Then his fingers close lightly around Charles’ ankle and that’s enough.

Charles’ eyes snap open and he jerks upright before he can even think to stop himself, yanking his foot away from Shaw and scrambling backwards on the bed until his back hits the wall. He stays there, blanket gathered up around him as much as possible as he stares at Shaw and tries to get his adrenaline levels back down to something that’s less like blind panic. Shaw’s grip had been loose, but Charles can’t help but imagine in sickening detail what it would feel and sound like if he’d chosen to strengthen his grip.

Shaw stands by the edge of the bed, grinning. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Erik’s glaring at him over Shaw’s shoulder and Charles fully deserves it. Why couldn’t he have just _kept still?_

“So quick,” Shaw remarks. He advances slowly alongside the bed towards Charles. “You haven’t worn him out nearly enough, have you, Erik?”

“You gave him to me,” Erik replies stonily, crossing his arms. “It’s none of your business how I use him.”

“Oh, but I would be so disappointed to hear that such a pretty mouth is going to waste.”

When he reaches down, Charles tries to squirm away, but Erik nails him to the headboard by his collar. All he can do is glower as Shaw’s hand grips his chin and pulls his head up so Shaw can examine his face, tilting it back and forth in the light. “You were so gentle with him, Erik.” He glances down at Charles’ bare chest, which is unmarked. “I have to say, I’m surprised. You’re hardly a gentle man.”

Erik steps forward between them and pushes Shaw away. “What happens in my bed is my business. Now did you come here for a reason or just to stare at my little pet?”

“He _is_ so very easy on the eyes,” Shaw sighs with mock regret. But he doesn’t try to touch Charles again; instead he walks over to the holoscreen and trails his fingers across the console. “What _have_ you been working on these last couple of days if you weren’t busy fucking our dear lieutenant over there?”

“ _When_ I wasn’t busy fucking him,” Erik corrects, “I was just doing general research. I missed a lot of news while I was in the hole.”  

The blueprints he was studying earlier are off-screen now, though they’d pop back up quickly enough if Shaw searched the console’s history. But Shaw doesn’t linger by the holoscreen long enough to check. He saunters back to the bed and lets his gaze trail over Charles, his eyes dark and lewd. Charles wants to shrink away under his attention but there’s nowhere to go. The only relief is that Erik is still standing between him and Shaw and Erik seems to have a vested interest in keeping him in one piece.

“I did come over for a reason,” Shaw says eventually. “It appears that the other pilot needs rest. We need Lieutenant Xavier on the bridge. I’ve come to escort him up.”

Charles’ stomach lurches at the thought of being alone with Shaw but before he can try to argue his way out of it, Erik says, “I’ll take him.”

“Why, Erik,” Shaw teases, “don’t you trust me with him?”

“Not at all.”

Shaw’s smile is sharp. “Tsk, I’m hurt. But alright, take him.”

Turning, Erik snaps his fingers at Charles. “Get dressed.”

Now? With Shaw watching? Charles hesitates, his stomach turning at the idea of Shaw ogling him. But there’s nothing for it: he has to play along. Keeping his eyes trained on the floor, he slides off the side of the bed and hurriedly steps into his trousers. It takes him two tries to tie the laces properly and as he reaches for his shirt, he can feel Shaw’s gaze against his backside, hot and lustful. Ears burning, he pulls his shirt on over his head and then automatically drifts closer to Erik, who puts out a hand and takes Charles by the arm.

Shaw smiles widely as Erik pulls Charles closer to himself, eyes half-lidded as he looks over them both slowly. “Look at you two,” he drawls, and Charles has to force himself not to reflexively try to yank away from Erik if only to keep Shaw from staring at them like he is. The only thing really stopping him is the fact that he knows Erik won’t let him go. “What a pair. You must make quite a sight.”

“Keep imagining, Shaw,” Erik says icily, “you aren’t getting a show.”

Shaw chuckles, eyes glittering. “No? Because I’m still not entirely convinced that you’re putting him to good use, my boy. It might do wonders to reassure my nerves to see the lieutenant get down on his knees and suck your cock right now.”

Charles lurches backwards, pulling in a sharp breath and wincing when Erik’s grip only tightens, fingers digging painfully into skin and muscle. No. He won’t do it. He _won’t_. Shaw and Erik can go _fuck themselves_ —

“I just said you aren’t getting a show,” Erik says, deadly calm but Charles can hear the table and chairs, made out of a cheap alloy, vibrating slightly against the floor.

“So shy,” Shaw observes, still grinning. He isn’t afraid at all. He has no reason to be—anything Erik throws at him will only be rendered ineffective, if Anna Marie is right about his powers. “What a pity. You’re going to have to stake your claim sometime, Erik, you know this. I can’t be held responsible if the rumor gets out that you’re not fucking our dear lieutenant and he’s therefore still up for grabs, you know.”

Charles draws in a ragged breath, his body so tense now that he feels a small breeze could snap him in half. He’s terrified and he hates that he’s terrified, hates that he’s in this situation, that he’s powerless to do anything about it. His last line of defense is Erik, and he doesn’t even know if or when Erik will turn on him too.

“You seem very certain that I haven’t fucked him,” Erik says blithely, so deliberately calm that even the table and chairs have stopped trembling in the wake of his power.

“Oh, I know the look of a man who hasn’t yet been broken in,” Shaw says, gaze trained on Charles’ face even as he smiles again, this time not bothering to hide his cruel intent. “And you are wasting golden opportunities, my boy. You know,” he adds,  “I think you owe me a few favors as well, Erik. Quite a few, in fact.” The way his eyes trace over Charles’ form makes him feel naked all over again.

“And I’ll repay you for them,” Erik says calmly, “but not with him. Now get out of my quarters.”

Shaw reaches out to touch Charles’ chin lightly, his fingers ghosting against skin. His indulgent smile only widens when Charles flinches away. “I do regret giving him away so easily. But I’m a man of my word.” He pats Charles on the cheek and turns for the door. “See him to the bridge, Erik. We’ll need him up there for eight hours at least. Oh, and Erik?” Shaw pauses to look back at them over his shoulder. “There _will_ be consequences if he hasn’t been used by the next time I see you both.”

As soon as the door’s shut behind him, Charles sags in Erik’s grip. His heart feels like it’s racing in his throat, choking him with the force of its pounding.

“Can you stand?” Erik asks, glancing him over.

At first Charles doesn’t know what to say to him, especially after Shaw’s last parting shot. His ears are ringing, adrenaline still coursing through his body so strongly that it takes all of his might not to stagger backwards all the way across the room until he hits a wall when Erik slowly relinquishes his grip on Charles’ arm. “I’m…yeah.” A blatant lie, but it’s not like Erik actually gives a damn.

“Good.” Erik’s face is impassive. “Come on then.”

They head out the door and down the hall. Once they’re settled in the lift, Charles scrubs a hand over his face and runs through a breathing exercise to calm his pulse. It won’t be so bad to be back on the bridge. At least he’ll have something to do, and it’ll give him a chance to try to collect more intel on where they’re headed. A chance to not think about what he’s going to have to let Erik do to him.

Just as the lift slides to a smooth stop, Charles belatedly remembers what Erik had warned him earlier. Hitting the emergency panel to keep the doors from opening, he asks, “Should I—am I supposed to pretend my hand’s still broken?” It’ll be a difficult sell since it isn’t red and swollen, but he can improvise. He’s good at playing roles.

Erik nods, his mouth pressed into a flat line of annoyance. “We should have disguised it better. I don’t know if Shaw noticed but if he did…well. We’ll just have to do our best with it.”  

“Do you have a handkerchief or something?”

Erik’s eyebrows rise. “Do I look like a man who carries a handkerchief?”

“No, you don’t.” Charles digs through the pockets of his trousers and comes up empty. With a sigh, he just pulls one overlong sleeve over his left hand and holds it to his chest. “I should bandage it when we go back.”

“Good idea. Now put on your game face, Lieutenant. Shaw’s men will be watching.”

Curious, Charles thinks, that Erik doesn’t consider himself one of Shaw’s men. Another thought for another time though—Erik releases the emergency stop and the doors slide open to reveal the bridge, brightly lit in the day cycle. Charles takes a deep breath and steps out.

Several of Shaw’s men are loitering around the consoles. None of them seems to be serving any specific purpose and though they look over as he enters, they don’t say a word as he heads for the pilot’s chair. He’s not sure if Shaw ordered them to leave him alone or if Erik’s presence is enough to keep their mouths shut, but he’s glad for the silence as he sits down and enters his credentials into the main holoscreen, giving him manual control of the ship’s systems.

They’re still on course toward the Gulesson, a little less than 26 weeks out if current flying conditions hold. Charles checks the fuel readings, finds them satisfactory, and then examines the plotted course again to make sure the radars aren’t picking up any anomalies. Just as he’s scanning through the holoscreens, he catches motion out of the corner of his eye: Erik’s moving away from him.

In a bolt of panic, he reaches out and grabs Erik’s wrist. It’s a small motion and thankfully the other prisoners don’t seem to notice it. Still, Erik glares at the contact and Charles releases him quickly. “You aren’t leaving?” he whispers.

Much to his relief, Erik shakes his head. “Relax and do your job. I’ll be watching you.”

It’s absolutely bizarre how that statement feels more reassuring than threatening. Shrugging off the thought, Charles turns back to the holoscreens, though a sliver of his attention remains on Erik as he moves through the room. Shaw’s men don’t seem eager to be near him, edging away subtly as Erik passes them by. Charles wonders what kind of display Erik must have put on, at some point, to win everyone’s fearful respect.

It’s probably better that he doesn’t know.

Charles refocuses on the holoscreens, swiping slowing slowly through a report sent up from engineering. No problems have sprung up since the inmates’ hostile takeover, everything running at normal capacity and no system bugs detected. That’s good news, at least. The worst possible situation that could happen to them now is an engine core meltdown, and Charles would rather not experience that too on top of everything else.

Cautiously, Charles pushes himself to his feet. When no one makes a move towards him, he quickly steps over to the navigation table and pulls up a star chart of the surrounding area. It gives him a wider scope of their course, the Serenity a little green dot cruising along her vector through open, empty space. They’re still only in OZ-1, on the edges of what most people consider to be civilized space, but that will soon change as they fly deeper and deeper into the sector, fast-approaching the approximated boundary line that marks the beginning of OZ-2.

Charles wonders if anyone back at IF Command has happened to try and hail the ship yet, either for protocol reasons or just to check in. Surely someone’s significant other, partner, sibling, friend has tried calling or messaging someone in the crew in the past 48 hours and is puzzled by the lack of response. Maybe Moira has tried to call him to tell him about her fourth coffee date with Sean. Someone _somewhere_ has to be wondering about the Serenity.

It’s too late, though. Shaw planned the timing of his uprising perfectly. They’re in the Outer Zones now. Even if IF Command was mobilizing a fleet right now to track the Serenity down, it would be weeks before they caught up, if they were able to catch up at all. Charles returns to the main pilot console and pulls up a new screen, his suspicions immediately confirmed. Shaw must have made Ramirez disable the Serenity’s homing device, which is programmed to transmit a beacon to IF Command every so often so they can track the ship’s whereabouts. Charles toggles through the action commands and sure enough, he finds Ramirez’s brief transmission to Command: [ _Homing device malfunctioned. No onboard patch to correct; continuing on attached plotted course_.]

The plotted course is their original trip plan to the new prison, and Charles feels sick when he sees Command’s affirmative response acknowledging the transmission. [ _Proceed with flight plan._ ]

“What are you looking at?” Erik’s voice directly behind him makes Charles jump, whirling around to face him. Erik doesn’t react to Charles’ edginess, merely looking at him steadily.

“I was only wondering if the homing device was still activated,” Charles answers at last, deciding to be honest. He wills his heart rate to slow down again, but his nerves are just about shot. “Looks like Shaw had the other pilot deactivate it.”

“No hope for rescue, then,” Erik says dryly, raising his eyebrows.

Charles swallows the lump in his throat. “No.”

Erik watches him unreadably for a few long moments. Charles is suddenly aware that they’re completely alone on the bridge—Shaw’s men are gone, and he’d been so wrapped up in checking the systems and his own thoughts that he hadn’t even heard them leave. Stupid, he admonishes himself, anyone could have come up behind you and grabbed you.

Finally Erik sighs, pulling out a chair from one of the other consoles with a flick of his power and sitting down. “I _am_ sorry that our escape comes at the expense of the crew, including you. I know none of you asked for this.”

Charles turns away, closing out of some of the screens to give himself something to do. “Not sorry enough that you didn’t do it,” he says tightly in reply. “Not sorry enough to not help Shaw.”

“If you were in prison with him, you’d want out too,” Erik says, unruffled. “If you had a chance to break free from this, from us, would you not take it? Even if you did have to play a little dirty?”

Charles turns his head to stare at him. It has to be the most he’s ever heard Erik say to him at once, barring any of the conversations with Shaw present. He spares half a moment to wonder what brought on this sudden willingness for conversation, and then focuses on his reply. “I think our situations vastly differ,” he says flatly, “as I’m not a convicted criminal who was sentenced to be locked up for a reason in the first place.”

“Are you curious, Lieutenant?” Erik could be mocking him, Charles can’t tell. Not with his bloody-minded determination to remain utterly calm in the face of anything. “Would you like to know what I’ve done?”

“No,” Charles lies. He looks away, back towards the console, but there’s nothing left for him to check on. It probably would be best to know what Erik’s in for, especially since he’s stuck with Erik for the long haul, but Charles can’t bring himself to verbally change his answer now. It feels too much like he’d be conceding to Erik in some way.

Erik, of course, doesn’t seem bothered by this. At least he’s not inclined to boasting, Charles thinks, and then wonders what that can possibly say about the rest of Erik’s character. “So what you’re saying, then, is that you would play dirty to escape from here since we’re just a bunch of criminals and probably deserve it.”

“I’m not in the party of those who rampaged through the ship and murdered every single human crewmember,” Charles snaps, glaring at him, “so if you’re trying to make me feel guilty over the hypothetical possibility of having to kill someone during my hypothetical escape, fuck off.”

“The only humans I killed were part of the prison guard squadron,” Erik answers, something dark and pitiless entering his voice, cold remorselessness that chills Charles to the bone, “and believe me, they deserved it.”

“No one deserves to die,” Charles says quietly, an automatic response ingrained in him by his own respect for life and the personal set of morals he’s always lived by.

“Not even those who starve certain prisoners for no reason besides the fact that they’re mutant?” Erik asks, his sudden icy fury enough to startle Charles into looking back over at him. “Not those who pull selected prisoners aside and beat them until they can’t walk, not because of bad behavior but because they’re mutant?”

The hair on the back of Charles’ neck underneath the collar is standing on end, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of just how much metal is surrounding them. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth with fear, “I couldn’t have known about that before now, alright?”

“Of course not,” Erik says bitterly, but he’s calmer again, no longer building in intensity as if preparing to strike. Charles breathes out slowly.

A heavy silence falls between them, broken only by the quiet hum of the ship’s computers. Charles can’t help but feel that he’s misstepped somehow, even though he didn’t mean to. He still believes that no one ever deserves to be killed in cold blood, no matter how bigoted their views are, but he’s not about to argue the point with Erik now. Not when he’s utterly defenseless in the face of Erik’s metal abilities. There’s no such thing as a healthy debate, not on this ship.

“What are the chances of running into anyone out here?” Erik asks after a long minute, gaze pinned on the window and stars beyond.

Charles glances at him. “Not very likely, given that we’re in the OZs. Not many people come out this far.” He pauses, pulling up the radar holoscreen since they’re on the subject. Space is still empty around them, nothing but stars and their silently spinning planets for light years and light years. “Not anyone who isn’t hiding from the law, at any rate.”

“So there could be pirates.” Erik seems intrigued by the possibility.

“Yes,” Charles answers cautiously. He still can’t figure out Erik’s temperament, as he seems to range from calm one moment and intimidatingly dangerous in the next, a volatile back-and-forth that makes Charles feel like he has whiplash. It’s not helping either to have his telepathy blocked. At least with telepathy he’d be able to sense Erik’s mood changes coming.

“Then what happens.”

“What do you mean, what happens?”

Erik gives him a look. “What happens if we run into pirates.”

“We should be too big for anyone to want to bother messing with us,” Charles answers after a pause, recalling Huxley’s words. He hopes that the captain and the rest of the officers are still alive. “But we’ve got four alpha-class photon torpedoes and a plasma cannon that’s probably only good for two or three shots.”

“They sent you into deep space with only that much firepower?”

“They sent you too,” Charles reminds him dryly. “But anyway, that’s why they actually bother to send pilots along too, and not just leave the ship reliant on a preprogrammed autopilot or something. Combat maneuvering.”

Erik cocks an eyebrow. “Experienced?”

“A little,” Charles admits, and it should be ridiculous to feel mildly pleased at how Erik nods appreciatively. “I saw a little combat in the To Yong system, when the political upheaval was going on a few years back. Got our Nova 541 out of some tight spots more than once.”

“Ever take any shots?” Erik’s gaze is piercing.

“No,” Charles says, and Erik’s eyes lose a little interest. Just like that, they’re right back to a tense silence once more. As Erik rises to wander behind him, Charles pans through a few more holoscreens and checks their course for the fifth time. Nothing’s changed, as expected. When the ship is flying straight and true, there really isn’t much for a pilot to do other than monitor their status and sit back and watch the stars skate by. It’s a much less exciting picture than the one IF recruiting boards like to paint.

The recruiters that had come to Charles’ prep school had promised a whole lot of adventure and intrigue. Charles thinks humorlessly that they hadn’t exactly had this in mind.

He ends up staying on the bridge for much longer than eight hours. By the time he’s relieved of his duties, Charles has been manning the pilot console for fifteen hours, nearly twice as long as a usual shift. At the end of it, he’s running on fumes and the fear of what will happen if he simply falls asleep at the controls. Erik leaves him briefly a few times, once with several other inmates on the bridge helping man the secondary consoles at Charles’ direction. Every time Erik’s gone, Charles’ pulse thumps dizzyingly in his throat until Erik returns, and his heartbeat only settles whenever Erik sits at his side and watches him work, close enough for Charles to use him as a shield if any of the other inmates makes a move toward him. One of those times, Erik brings him a tube of food paste and a container of water, which keeps him refreshed enough to hold out until Azazel arrives with Ramirez in tow.

Relief floods through Charles at the sight of his fellow pilot. Ramirez doesn’t look much worse for wear; besides a half-healed cut across his cheek, he seems relatively unharmed. In the moments it takes them to switch places, Charles murmurs, “You okay?” and receives a tight, wordless nod in reply.

“Come on,” Erik says to him, jerking his head toward the door.

“One moment. I have to give him a sitrep.”

Erik nods. “Make it quick.”

Leaning over the pilot’s chair, Charles tells Ramirez, “We’re on course and good on fuel. There’s a little debris a few hours ahead, but it should be easy enough to navigate through.”

Ramirez logs his credentials without a word. Lack of physical injuries aside, his face is drawn and his eyes are dull. Charles has no idea what the man’s been through in the last 48 hours and the possibilities send a shiver down Charles’ spine. After a moment, he lays the half-full tube of food paste on the edge of the console, along with the canister of water. He doesn’t wait to see if Ramirez acknowledges the gift before turning to follow Erik off the bridge.

“Those were your rations for the day,” Erik remarks as they enter the lift.

“All I want right now is sleep,” Charles replies, rubbing his eyes.  

“Awfully considerate of you, especially to a man who all but fed you to the wolves to save his own skin,” Erik says, tapping the button for second deck.

Charles closes his eyes as they descend, too weary to argue. “Maybe I’m just not very good at holding grudges, alright?”

“Alright,” Erik repeats neutrally, and thankfully lets the matter drop.

They troop out into the hallway in silence when the doors hiss open again, but Charles starts when Erik hangs a left instead of a right, walking away from the officer quarters where they’ve resided the past two days and towards the regular crew quarters. Charles has to put an extra skip in his step for a pace or two to catch up again with Erik’s longer strides, even though it’s almost humiliating how anxious and exposed he feels in an empty hallway with more than three feet of distance between them.

“Where are we going?” he dares to ask, trying to keep trepidation from entering his voice and mostly failing. They haven’t been doing this long enough to have a set schedule, but Charles is quickly finding that while he can’t expect anything to be set in stone, this doesn’t feel like a regular side trip.

Erik comes to a stop in front of one of the doors. “These were your quarters, yes?”

“Yes…?” Charles answers hesitantly, realizing after a moment that Erik is correct. He doesn’t bother asking how Erik knows; the information is easy enough to look up in the ship’s log. “What are we—?”

Erik lifts a hand and makes a sharp, horizontal slashing motion, dragging the door open with a small crunch of metal. “Lights,” Erik says calmly, and Charles has no choice but to follow him when he steps inside the tiny quarters, still with no idea as to what Erik’s intentions are.

“What the fuck, Erik?” The mutant with the long fangs Charles recognizes from that first night on the bridge is reclined back on the bed, but he sits up when they enter the room, blinking blearily at them in the sudden bright light. His gaze falls on Charles and sharpens by half. “Oh,” he breathes out, climbing up to his feet in a motion so abrupt that Charles steps closer to Erik, “I heard you let the Wolverine have him for a night, does this mean that I—”

Erik slams him back against the wall with the desk chair, melting its shape down in midair and reforming it into a long, thick bar that he presses down against the fanged inmate’s throat. Charles flinches at the noise but Erik ignores him, watching the other man struggle in vain for a few moments with casual disinterest.

“Erik! Erik, what the _fuck_ —when Shaw hears about this—” His voice cuts out abruptly with a loud choking sound, and Charles feels nauseous as the inmate’s face starts to go purple.

“Get your clothes,” Erik says to Charles, eyes still trained on his victim, “make it quick.”

Charles stares at him a moment longer, too shocked to move at first, but then another aborted choke from the inmate spurs him into action. He moves over to the storage capsules quickly, digging out his duffle before pulling open one of the drawers of the dresser next to the capsule, pulling out as many sets of the plain black casual wear that he can get his hands on and shoving them all into the bag. He’s dimly aware of Erik advancing slowly across the small room towards the inmate plastered against the wall, but when he leans in close to the other mutant’s face and begins to talk in a low voice, Charles tunes them out and focuses on scooping up clean boxers from the top drawer and throwing them in his duffle as well.

After a moment’s deliberation Charles also pulls out his spare pilot uniform as well, the black pants and blue jacket folded into a neat bundle in the back of the middle drawer. He doesn’t know if there’s a real point to taking it, but maybe something about having that thicker cotton layer of the jacket will make him feel a little more secure if he’s going to have to go back up to the bridge again to relieve Ramirez anytime soon.

When he straightens and turns around, Erik is still speaking to the other inmate in a low voice, while the man shakes his head violently back and forth as much as his restraints allow. Charles swallows, and then darts into the bathroom where he gathers up as many of his toiletries as he can, scooping them into his bag. He has no way of telling if they’ve been gone through or used by the inmate who’s taken up residence in his quarters, but he can always examine them more closely later back in Erik’s quarters.

He pauses when his fingers land on his razor. The blades are obviously sharp, and if he wanted to Charles could probably figure out a way to take them apart and use them as a weapon. Utterly useless in the face of Erik’s powers, but Erik might not like the idea of him having it anyway.

Charles immediately takes that line of thought and throws it mentally away, sweeping the razor into the bag along with everything else. If Erik doesn’t want him to have a razor, then Erik can sniff out the fact that Charles has one in the first place on his own. Otherwise Charles doesn’t have to tell him a thing.

He swings the strap of the duffle over his shoulder and takes a breath, steeling himself. His reflection in the mirror is pale and haggard, the hunted look in his eyes doing nothing to improve the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. He barely recognizes himself.

Cautiously, Charles steps back out into the room, hand clenched tightly around the strap. Erik is back in the center of the tiny quarters, arms folded casually while he waits. The other inmate has been released from the wall and sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his neck and keeping his eyes averted, even from Charles.

“All set?” Erik asks, glancing at him briefly.

“Yes,” Charles says, biting back the automatic _thank you_ that he’d normally follow up with. He doesn’t need to thank Erik for deigning to allow him to get his hands on his own clothes again.

“Let’s go.” Erik jerks his chin towards the door, so Charles slips past him back out into the hallway. Erik emerges a moment later, pulling the door shut again with a loud crunch.

The trip back to Erik’s quarters is made in silence, Charles struggling to parse out exactly how he feels right now, eyes trained on Erik’s back as he follows him down the hall. Tired, he decides as Erik ushers him back into the larger officer quarters. That’s how he feels: tired and drained.

As soon as the door is closed again behind them, Erik welding the edges shut as usual, the memory of what happened the last time they were here hits Charles, brought back in sharp relief now that they’re alone together in the bedroom, as it were, Shaw’s parting words hovering between them. Charles swallows hard and grips his duffle with both hands, half-afraid Erik’s going to tear it from him and throw him onto the bed.

Erik, of course, does nothing of the sort. “I suggest you get some rest,” is all he says as he moves toward the bathroom. “I don’t know when you’ll be called back to the bridge.”

Charles doesn’t need to be told twice. After making sure the bathroom door’s closed behind Erik, he lays his duffel beside the nightstand and then sinks down into the bed, barely managing to get underneath the covers before he’s out like a light.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: heavy dub-con between Charles and Erik (see end notes for further detail).

It happens, finally, the following night, after Charles has spent ten hours on the bridge navigating their way through a minor but extensive debris field. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed toeing off his boots when Erik says, “I’m going to fuck you soon and I want to know that you won’t fight it.”

Charles’ heart stutters in his chest. Though he’s been bracing himself for it for what feels like so long, it’s actually a shock to hear the words spoken aloud, like being doused with ice water. Trying to swallow the nausea that rises in his throat, he folds his hands in his lap to steady them and says very firmly, “You may be able to overpower me without much effort but you’re bloody well mistaken if you think I’m not going to fight you for every inch.”

To his surprise, Erik appears more exasperated than angry at his response. “I had a feeling you’d say that. I’m not looking to rape you, Lieutenant. If I had my way, you and your crewmembers wouldn’t be on this ship at all; we’d have jettisoned you in the escape pods and left you behind when we took over your ship. But this isn’t my ship, it’s Shaw’s. And here, we play by his rules or we face the consequences.”

“And he wants you to fuck me,” Charles says flatly. “Why the hell is he so interested in that?”

“Part of it is the fact that you _are_ quite pretty, Lieutenant, and men like you in prison serve a purpose.”

“That’s sick.”

“For the civilized world, maybe. But not in KG. You wouldn’t have survived a week in that shithole. Men like you either didn’t last long or they got lucky.”

“Lucky? How?”

“They got picked up by men like me,” Erik says with a humorless smile. “And in a place like KG, we’re few and far between.”

Charles resists the urge to roll his eyes. “So we’re back to this.”

“This?”

“You telling me I should be _grateful_ that you picked me out so you could reluctantly rape me.”

“Would you rather others enthusiastically rape you?”

“No,” Charles snaps, his stomach turning at the thought. “But I’m not going to thank you for saving me by fucking me.”

Erik studies him in silence for a long moment. Uncomfortable under his unwavering stare, Charles finishes pulling off his boots and sits tensely on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. He knows the situation he’s stuck in. He knows Erik’s going to touch him and probably even fuck him and Charles is going to consent to it. He’s going to have to actually give his _consent_ because if Shaw comes back and finds that Erik hasn’t…if they haven’t…

Well. It’s not going to be pretty for Charles.

“The other part?” he asks finally, running his thumb down a crease in his pants.

“What?”

“You said part of the reason Shaw was fixated on me is the fact that I’m pretty. The other part?”

“The other part is that Shaw doesn’t like me very much,” Erik admits, “and he’ll do whatever he can to unsettle me. When I claimed you, I just gave him another leverage point to use against me.”

“Then why do it? Why take me in?” Why risk himself? Erik’s put his neck on the line more than once for Charles and as far as Charles can see, he hasn’t gained anything for it.  

“I have my reasons,” Erik replies, frustratingly elusive. “For now, we’re going to play Shaw’s game and that means following the rules.”

Charles swallows. “How will Shaw even know?”

“I don’t know. But Shaw has hundreds of mutants under his thumb and any one of them could have powers we don’t know about. So we can do this in private or we can wait until Shaw comes by and demands a show.”

“Privately,” Charles says quickly, shuddering at the thought of Shaw standing over the bed, watching. If this is going to happen, then he’d rather have no witnesses to his humiliation.

He runs a trembling hand down his thigh. “Can we…could we fake it?”

“You heard him earlier. The shit about knowing when a man’s been broken in or not. If he suspected for even a second that we were lying, I don’t think he’ll be giving either one of us a second chance.”

“Alright, alright.” Charles takes several deep breaths and tries not to think about how they’re negotiating his own rape. “Okay, just…just make it quick.”

The look Erik gives him then could almost be called gentle. “I don’t need you to like me, Lieutenant. I just need your cooperation.”

“Yeah, and this is me cooperating,” Charles says testily, standing up. “Do you want to do it now? Should I take my clothes off?”

Erik’s still watching him with that same look on his face, unfazed by Charles’ temper or perhaps just uncaring. “Have you slept with a man before?”

“Yes,” Charles answers stiffly.

“That’s good, at least.” Erik sounds as if he’s awkwardly trying to be reassuring, but it’s not working in the slightest.

“At least,” Charles repeats bitterly. He sees the point Erik is trying to make, though, however reluctantly. It could be worse, he tries to tell himself, you could’ve never have taken a cock up your ass before now. At least he knows what he’s in for. “Don’t try to make me feel better about this,” he snaps, suddenly angry, “let’s just get it over with.”

Erik’s face is a blank mask, but he reaches back over his head and pulls his shirt off. Charles takes another deep, juddering breath, and then pulls his own shirt off as well, considerably less gracefully when the fabric catches on the inhibitor collar for a moment and he struggles with his head still caught in the shirt before he finally breaks free.

He can already feel Erik’s eyes on him, though Charles isn’t sure what there is to stare about. Erik’s seen him shirtless before—completely naked before, even, when he’d made Charles get dressed in front of Shaw—but then it hits him. Before it wasn’t with _intent._

Charles lets his shirt drop to the floor, trying not to shiver in a combination of nerves and the chill in the room. “You first,” he says flatly, nodding to Erik.

For some reason, Erik almost looks amused. Charles opens his mouth, ready to snarl at him for thinking any part of this is funny, but then Erik puts his hands on the waistband of his trousers and shucks them off, pulling his pants down too in the same motion so that he stands completely bared in front of Charles, eyebrows slightly raised as he waits for assessment.

Charles’ mouth snaps shut. He stares. “Really?” he asks weakly at last, torn between a strange mix of being upset and finding his circumstances growing more and more ridiculous by the second.

Erik huffs out a breath that could be taken for a laugh. “Really.”

“Your cock is monstrous.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“You are not touching me,” Charles answers flatly, “unless you have lube.”

Erik snorts. “I’m not that callous of a partner,” he says dryly, walking over to the dresser. His cock swings between his legs, not yet hard but slowly getting interested in the proceedings as Erik drops a hand down absently to adjust himself. Charles is suddenly glad that he’s not the one who has to get it up. He’s not certain that he could if he tried right now.

Though, he thinks a little hysterically, his life _does_ depend on it.

While Erik opens the top drawer and digs through Kirseth’s undergarments, Charles takes advantage of his turned back to work up his own courage to lose the rest of his clothes as well. Like Erik, he pulls both his trousers and pants off in one go, letting the fabric slide down off his hips and thighs to pool on the cold floor at his feet. He’s bending down to pull off his socks when Erik turns back around again.

“Luckily your first officer has us covered,” Erik says, but then stops when his gaze lands on Charles again.

“What?” Charles demands, unable to help a sudden wave of self-consciousness. He resists the urge to cover himself with his hands, squaring his shoulders and facing Erik head-on.

“Nothing,” Erik says carefully, attaching no perceivable emotion to the word. Charles sees that he’s got a small tub of lube in his hand, courtesy of Kirseth’s drawer. “Get on the bed.”

It’s only two steps over to the side of the bed, and from there Charles crawls onto the mattress on his knees. His hands are shaking again, he observes distantly, his entire body taut and tense enough to almost be painful. “How do you want me?” Even his own voice sounds far away to his own ears, like someone else entirely is speaking.

Erik approaches the bed slowly, like Charles is a cornered animal that he doesn’t want to frighten more. He wouldn’t be far off the mark. He sets the tub down on the small bedside stand and then, glacially slow, lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, broadcasting every move. “However you prefer.”

“I—I don’t know,” Charles says, the honest admission startling even him as his voice cracks on the last syllable because he _doesn’t want this_ even though he knows he has to, in this fucked up situation where Erik is his best choice because if it’s not Erik it’s going to be any number of other inmates that Shaw will pick to make sure they hurt Charles as much as possible. Charles’ breath stutters, coming too quick and too shallow, his vision starting to tunnel, and he hears himself draw a ragged gasp before hands come to rest gently on his cheeks, tilting his head up.

“Look at me,” Erik says, soft but firm, “breathe, Lieutenant. Just breathe.”

Charles focuses on Erik’s face, staring into those calculating, intense eyes that hold his own unblinkingly, honed in on him with the precision of lasers. He breathes in and out, gradually evening out his pulse until he no longer feels like he’s seconds from passing out. As the panic recedes, self-disgust sets in; he should be able to handle this, Charles berates himself, he should be able to just buck up and get it over with.

“Coping?” Erik asks him, drawing him back to the present. He’s knelt on the bed in front of Charles, up on his knees so that he retains his greater height. He slowly brings his hands away.

Charles nods. He feels wrung out and exhausted, both mentally and physically, and they haven’t even done anything yet.

Erik studies him for a moment longer, before he inclines his head once. “I’m going to tip you back now.” He waits for Charles to nod again, and then he puts one hand on Charles’ hip, the other sliding around to rest on his back, and then he effortlessly bears Charles down onto the sheets, laying him down on his back and settling in between Charles’ parted legs.

Charles stares up at the ceiling, concentrating on breathing while Erik sits back again. He feels Erik shifting around on the sheets but no touches come aside from where Erik’s knees brush against the inside of his thighs. Erik leans over and grabs the tub of lube off the side table, and Charles hears him unscrew the lid, popping off the top. It takes him a few moments to realize what the other sounds are—Erik’s stroking himself, pumping his own cock to work himself up to full hardness.

Not having access to his telepathy right now is turning out to be a boon, as Charles doesn’t have to worry about building up shields to prevent himself from accidentally picking up anything off of Erik. He doesn’t want to know what Erik is thinking or feeling right now as he slicks his cock up.

“Is this fine, or would you rather be on your stomach.” Erik’s talent of making questions sound more like statements is useful in preserving the completely neutral tone of his voice. Charles wonders how he does it.

“This works,” Charles answers after a pause. It would be easier to ignore Erik and hide his face in the sheets if he turned over onto his stomach, but the thought of presenting his defenseless back to Erik is enough to make his skin crawl. At least this way if Erik does try to hurt him, he’ll see it coming and be able to try and fight back.

Erik accepts this answer without comment. “I’m going to prep you now. Spread your legs a little more.”

Spreading his legs is the absolute last thing Charles wants to do at the moment but he summons some of that old Academy military training and obeys. Just pretend it’s the drill sergeant, Charles tells himself. As a military pilot, he’d had to go through boot camp just like any other soldier and he can still summon up Drill Sergeant Tilden’s voice in his head, clear as a bell. That voice could make any creature on the planet, alien or not, leap to immediate attention, and in the six weeks Charles spent with the man, he learned to obey that voice without thinking.

“More,” Erik says, urging his knees to fall open with gentle touches. “That’s it. Lift your hips a little so I can see.”

Charles realizes pretty quickly he’s hit that edge of panic that tips over into hysteria because suddenly he’s laughing and he can’t stop. Erik, looking about as shocked as Charles has ever seen him, freezes in place, one hand resting on Charles’ thigh, the other gripping the base of his own now-erect cock. Charles brings one hand up to cover his mouth and bites down hard on his forefinger, trying to get himself under control.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry. I’m just—imagining my drill sergeant giving me these orders and it’s—” He can see Tilden’s face now, his bushy mustache quivering over his thin lips, his perpetually-red nose wrinkling as he yells at the new recruits. They used to make fun of his red nose in whispers around card games. Rudolph, they called him. Hook him up to a sleigh and watch him glow.

Erik’s staring down at him as if he’s grown tentacles and started tap dancing. “You have a very strange sense of humor, Lieutenant.”

Charles hiccups a laugh that sounds slightly less frantic than the last. Progress. “Can you please call me Charles. Or Xavier, even. If we’re going to do this, I don’t want…” Oh god, they’re really doing this. His smile sloughs off in half a second. “I really, _really_ don’t want to be reminded what’s really going on here.”

“Alright.” Erik squeezes his knee lightly. “Charles. I need you to relax.”

Charles breathes out. “Alright. Alright.”

He tries to relax and brace himself for Erik’s initial touch without tensing up, but even so he still jumps slightly when he feels the tip of Erik’s finger brush against his hole. Erik goes still again, but the damage is already done: Charles’ body has gone rigid again. Charles doesn’t dare look back down to see Erik’s expression, because if it’s anything close to annoyance he’ll want to punch him and if it’s anything else, he...just doesn’t want to know. He bites his lower lip, using all of his might to keep his legs splayed vulnerably open despite the constant urge to close them.

Erik keeps his finger where it is, slowly tracing around the rim of his hole. From any other bed partner Charles has ever had, it would be soothing or even teasing. Here and now, under these circumstances, it can’t be. “You weren’t lying when you said you’ve slept with men before, were you?”

“No,” Charles answers. He doesn’t even have it in him to be affronted. He lets himself grow accustomed to the slow, steady circles Erik draws around his entrance, but he can feel that he’s still tense, down there as well as everywhere else.

Erik doesn’t press him for details at first, so he must believe Charles to some extent. His silence is thoughtful, however, even though his finger doesn’t pause as he continues to trace Charles’ hole. “All significant others, or one-night stands?”

“None of your business,” Charles snaps, sorely tempted to knee him in the face.

“I don’t mean it in a judgmental way,” Erik answers dryly. “One-night stands, yes or no?”

“Fine,” Charles says, eyes narrowed at the ceiling, “yes.”

“Then pretend I’m one of them,” Erik suggests, maddeningly reasonable, “just a random body you’ve picked up at the bar for the evening. No emotional strings attached.”

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this,” Charles mutters. He doesn’t entirely mean for it to come out loud enough for Erik to hear, but Erik snorts.

“Believe me, if there were alcohol on this ship, we’d have drunk some of it for this. Or at least enough to get you tipsy enough to relax.”

“I’m trying t—” Charles starts to answer, but his voice cuts out with a choked-off noise when Erik abruptly leans down to lick a long stripe up his cock. He’s remained mostly limp throughout the proceedings thus far, but when Erik draws the very tip of his tongue across his slit, Charles feels his cock twitch in interest.

Then he also realizes that Erik’s used the opportunity to carefully slide his finger into his ass, rubbing Charles’ inner walls with lube with gentle motions. “Alright?”

“Warn me next time,” Charles grits out, but they both know that would defeat the entire purpose.

Erik’s tactic is working, at least. His long, slender finger isn’t too much of a stretch in Charles’ ass, and he works Charles open tenderly, coating him liberally with lube and always keeping up his gentle rubbing. Charles clenches his fists in the sheets on either side of himself and lets his body go with the familiar motions, though he keeps his eyes focused on the ceiling with gritted teeth—he refuses to get off on this, no matter how careful or considerate Erik is.

Now that he’s gotten one finger into Charles, it’s easier for Erik to follow up with a second, sliding them both deep into Charles and gently scissoring them back and forth to get him to loosen even further. Charles’ cock is at half mast now, if only as a by-product of the kind of stimulation Charles normally enjoys during sex, but he’s glad nonetheless that Erik doesn’t seem to be making a point of searching out his prostate.

By the time Erik’s worked three fingers into him, the soft squelches of lube and flesh filling the silence of the room as he moves his hand back and forth, Charles is able to close his eyes and cast his mind far away, pretending that Erik really is just a random stranger he met at the bar that’s only just down the block from his apartment. They’re doing this for fun, for enjoyment, he tells himself dreamily as his hips jerk up once into the motion of Erik’s fingers, he’s not being held under duress by a madman who is intent on seeing him raped by one of his cronies.

“Still with me, Charles?” Erik asks, sliding his fingers out of Charles’ ass completely. He feels loose and open without them now, but no doubt that will soon change.

“I’m here,” Charles answers without opening his eyes. As much as he’s determined to hate Erik for this, Erik _is_ being extremely considerate. Isn’t that sick, he thinks as he swallows down the urge to choke, being grateful to the man for not just shoving it in. “I suppose it’s too late to ask for a condom.”

“None here,” Erik answers, no hint of deception in his voice. “I checked. I doubt Shaw would be very open to the idea anyway.”

“I don’t give a damn what Shaw wants,” Charles growls, even though so far all evidence points to the opposite of this. If he wasn’t worried about what Shaw wants, he wouldn’t have let Erik get him on his back with his legs open in the first place.

“I’m clean,” Erik says, and he sounds remarkably calm for someone who must be painfully hard by now if he’s managed to keep his arousal up despite Charles’ skittishness. “We were all given full medical exams before the transfer, and Shaw wasn’t lying when he said that I’ve never been interested in any of the men used as bed warmers in the KG.”

“I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it,” Charles says tightly.

He hears Erik breathe out, too softly to be considered a sigh. “If you’re ready, I’m going to fuck you now.”

“I’ve been asking to get it over with from the start,” Charles says wearily. Half of him says Erik didn’t deserve that, while the other half is still trembling on the edge of being violently sick that this is even happening right now.

He’s so caught up in his introspection and another strong wave of self-disgust on multiple levels that he isn’t prepared for the feeling of Erik’s thick cockhead to catch on the rim of his hole, stretching him a little wider than Erik’s fingers had as it presses its way into his body. Charles’ eyes shoot open wide, a small strangled sound forcing itself up out of his mouth as Erik pushes in, drawn out to a helpless, involuntary groan.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” Erik says in a strained voice, sounding like he’s desperately holding himself back from slamming into Charles with all of his might in order to chase the release he’s probably been wanting for some time now.

Charles can’t answer, not when it feels like he’s being split open on Erik’s cock, mouth falling open to form words soundlessly as Erik continues his slow but relentless push in. His hands have moved to grip Charles by the hips, slipping on sweaty skin but helping to angle Charles’ body up into a better position. Charles forces himself to breathe, chest heaving as Erik bottoms out completely, his balls flush against Charles’ ass and his cock embedded in Charles’ body to the root.

“Charles,” Erik says, sounding a little bit wrecked as he holds himself perfectly still, small tremors running through his body with the effort.

“I’m fine,” Charles says faintly, because for all of Erik’s intents and purposes he is, at the very least, “do it, just do it—”

Erik doesn’t need to be encouraged any further, drawing his hips back before snapping them forward and quickly setting up a fast and punishing pace. Charles closes his eyes again, holding his legs open limply and allowing himself to be just a hole for Erik to fuck, the slap of Erik’s balls against his skin loud and obscene.

He’s going to be sore after this, but that’s unavoidable given Erik’s girth, and Erik isn’t truly aiming to hurt him; his only goal is to get himself off as fast as possible. Charles’ own cock jumps every time the head of Erik’s cock happens to brush over his prostate, but he’s still not fully hard which for once in his life leaves him feeling deeply relieved.

He can tell that Erik is already starting to get close, his panting becoming ragged and his rhythm growing more and more erratic as he works his cock against the inner walls of Charles’ ass. Charles can feel himself sliding up the bed little by little with every one of Erik’s thrusts, a testimony of both Erik’s raw strength as well as Charles’ complete lack of reciprocation: Erik wouldn’t have to work nearly as hard if Charles were moving counterpoint to him to help things along. Charles can’t bring himself to.

“Look at me,” Erik growls out, hips still snapping forward brutally, “just—look at me—”

Charles cracks his eyes open, more startled than anything else, looking up at Erik’s tense face, his jaw clenched as he stares back down at Charles. When their eyes meet he slams his hips forward one last time and comes with his cock buried deeply inside Charles’ ass. He’s noiseless as it happens, curling down and forward slightly which serves to break their second-long eye contact, trembling silently through his orgasm as if it brings him pain rather than pleasure. It leaves Charles free to screw up his face and bite down on his lower lip again at the feeling of hot, sticky wetness coating the insides of his ass, shuddering for an entirely different reason than Erik.

There’s a moment of silence punctuated by their harsh breathing. Then Erik pulls out before Charles can brace himself for it and the slide of his cock on its way out is almost unbearable. Charles remains perfectly still as Erik rolls off to the side, but when come begins to trickle out of his ass, he feels his stomach heave.

“I’ll get something to clean up,” Erik mutters, but Charles is already sitting up and bolting for the bathroom, ignoring the soreness that’s spreading from his ass to his thighs. Once the door’s closed and locked, he rushes into the shower and slams his hand down on the panel to select for water. It’s blessed, blessed relief when the hot water begins to pour down over his head and down his body, washing away Erik’s touch and the thick scent of sex.

Well there it is. He did it. He spread his legs for a man he hardly knows in order to protect himself from a man who could and would break his bones for entertainment. The next time Shaw comes around, Erik will be able to say truthfully that he’s fucked Charles and Shaw will probably smile lewdly and comment on how pretty Charles is and how he’d like to pass him around like a whore. And what if he asks for a _demonstration?_

Charles nearly falls out of the shower in his haste to get to the toilet and he’s retching before he’s even on his knees. His head spinning, he clutches the toilet seat in both hands and tries not to breathe through his nose as the remains of the paste he had earlier comes up his throat. Bile burns in his mouth and he spits it out, desperate to get rid of the taste. He’s never felt so disgusting in his life, with puke on his chin and wet hair dripping water in his eyes and the last of Erik’s come running hot down his thigh, a reminder of what just happened in the bedroom—what he _let_ happen.

There’s a knock at the door. “Charles? You alright?”

Jesus _Christ_ , he has never, ever, _ever_ heard a less welcome question. “Go away,” he says into the toilet.

“What?”

He hits the side of the shower hard enough to rattle the glass and probably bruise his hand. “Go _away!”_

He doesn’t hear footsteps retreating but no one enters either. Suddenly drained of all energy and anger, he pushes himself off the toilet and crawls back into the shower. He’s too weary to even stand, so he compresses himself into one pristine white corner and lets the water wash over him, rolling down over his head and down his neck under the collar, down his shoulders and back. He puts his head on his knees and just breathes for a very long time, keeping his mind forcefully blank.

Eventually, his pulse feels relatively normal again and he can breathe without wanting to sob. Alright, he thinks philosophically, that wasn’t too bad. There’s no permanent damage that he can detect. As far as he can tell, he’ll be sore for a little while and then he’ll be fine. It’ll be as if nothing happened, and they can go about their lives again like before. Shaw will make crass jokes and discuss Charles as if he’s a possession, but those are all just words and Charles can shrug them off. He’s useful to Erik, he reminds himself. Erik needs him for something and until he gets it, he’s not going to let Charles go. Not for Shaw, not for anyone. Everything’s going to be alright.

The thought gives him enough strength to stand up and mechanically wash himself. By the time he’s scrubbed himself all over three times over, he’s feeling slightly more settled, and once he gets dressed and combs his hair down with his fingers, he looks more or less presentable. Not even any bruises, he thinks as he lifts his shirt and checks his torso in the mirror. He’s fine.

But the sick feeling in his gut doesn’t go away entirely.

When he steps out of the bathroom, Erik looks up from the holoscreen. He has a wary look in his eyes, as if he’s expecting Charles to lunge at him in a panic. Ignoring him, Charles goes back to the bed and sits down, riffling through his duffel for a sweatshirt. The climate-controlled quarters aren’t cold but Charles feels cold all over. As he pulls out the sweatshirt, a glint of metal inside the bag catches his eye.

The razor. For a long moment, he just stares at it, one fantasy after another spilling through his over-tired brain. He could take the blades and fight his way out of here. He could get to an escape pod, eject one, and pilot it to the nearest civilized world. He could call IF Command and report everything that’s happened, get them to send reinforcements immediately, get them to send a ship to come take him home. He could be back on Corellia within the month. He could be there for Raven when she gave birth, like he’d promised. He could end this, all of it.

Except he can’t. Razor blades. It’s so stupid he wants to cry. He’d never get two inches carrying a razor blade in his hand, not with Erik nearby. They’re going to the Gulesson. They’re going to refuel. Then they’re going straight to whatever their final destination is, where Shaw will probably no longer need the ship or the crew, and Charles is going to end up floating in deep space with his throat slit and no one will ever know what happened to the Serenity. She’ll be one of those lost ships that intrepid young explorers will set out to find, like Old Earth divers seeking shipwrecks and gold.

He pushes the duffel away and shrugs on the sweatshirt. All he wants to do is sleep, but when he lies down, the bed smells of them. Of Erik and of sex.

He can feel Erik’s eyes on him as he rolls out of the bed and goes over to one of the chairs by the table. They’re not very comfortable—minimally cushioned with stylish carved arms that jut into Charles’ back when he curls up in one—but they smell neutral at least. He presses his head against the headrest and tries very hard to go to sleep.

 

*

 

Something’s…different about Erik the next morning. He seems more cautious around Charles than he normally bothers to be, and he doesn’t snap when they speak. He’s mostly preoccupied with his own thoughts, so barring the few minutes he takes to dole out Charles’ rations, they don’t look at each other. Charles spends the morning staring blankly out the window into the stars.

Around noon, Erik gets up and walks to the door. As he bends the metal away from the doorframe, Charles lethargically stands without having to be told, hoping they’re going somewhere quiet. Maybe to Anna Marie, he thinks with a spark of anticipation. A few minutes with her would have him feeling infinitely better, if not entirely rejuvenated.

But Erik says, “I have somewhere to go. You stay here.”

Charles blinks at him, brow furrowed. “You’re not…leaving me here. Alone?”

“The door will be locked. You’ll be fine.”

“What if _Shaw_ comes by? He probably has the captain’s override codes—he could get in here if he wanted to—”

“He could,” Erik says simply, in a tone that implies that he’s being honest, not cruel. And that’s what Erik is, Charles supposes: frank and overly forceful but not downright _cruel_. Not like Shaw, at least. “And there’s nothing you or I could do to stop that. But I have somewhere to be and if he touches you…well. I _will_ make him regret it.”

“That’s so reassuring,” Charles mocks, an edge of panic beginning to rise in his chest. “I’ll be fine then. If he breaks my hand again or—or _fucks_ me, at least I know you’ll avenge me. I’m utterly calm now, truly. _Thank_ you.”

For a very long minute, Erik pauses in the doorway, his narrowed eyes on Charles. His gaze is as unreadable as ever and Charles wishes he had the brute strength to tear his collar off so he could just _see_ what Erik’s thinking. It’s been absolutely infuriating to live these last few days without his telepathy, without one of his key senses. Everything is so oddly quiet and off-kilter, and Charles is sure he won’t make it all the way to the Gulesson on the inhibitor. He’ll go mad in the silence, in all the painful futility and uncertainty.

Finally Erik says, “I wouldn’t leave you if I didn’t have to. More than anyone, I have a vested interest in your safety. But I have a meeting to go to and I can’t take you. So stay in the room, keep the door locked, and if Shaw comes by, tell him what he wants to hear. I’ll be back before your next shift on the bridge.”

After a moment, Charles nods sharply. “Yeah. Go.”  

Erik gives him one last look before slipping out the door. The metal flows back over the door frame, welding it shut in his wake. It wouldn’t stop Shaw but it might deter him. Shaw must have better things to do than prowl around trying to poach Erik’s pilot from him.

Erik’s gone. He’s alone in these quarters for the first time. The realization comes to him slowly: he has time and space to _plan_.

Quickly, he checks the holoscreen. It’s locked and Charles can’t bypass it with his credentials. Reprogrammed to keep the crew out, most likely. Taking that in stride, Charles takes his duffel and carries it to the bathroom. Then he takes out his razor and begins to pry the blades apart.

Most people these days use precision razors that can shave a face perfectly in two seconds, or even the bladeless sonic razors, but Charles had never gotten the hang of them. He likes the feel of shaving cream on his cheeks and the scrape of a metal razor across his stubbled skin. Raven always complains about how old-fashioned he is, carrying around manual razors and taking water showers and writing papers by hand when he has the time. It’s a holdover from his childhood days on Old Earth, where his family had lived in a mansion that seemed frozen two hundred years in the past. He’d even found a _cell phone_ in his father’s study once, a primitive device that no longer had any use beyond providing some mindless entertainment with its outdated games.

He’d thought about transitioning to newer technology several times, at Raven’s insistence. But right now, he’s immensely thankful he’d been too lazy to get around to it. The razor has three blades, and Charles cuts his fingers a couple of times extracting them all. As he runs his stinging fingers underneath the faucet, he considers the blades and their possible uses.

Step one is obvious: get the collar off his neck. Turning off the faucet, he twists around in the mirror to examine his collar as closely as he can, trying to work out if it has any weaknesses. Commander Briscoe’s presentation on the impenetrability of the collars seems like a lifetime ago, but Charles can hear his voice now, preaching on about its safety features. Failsafes to prevent them from popping open, enough dosage to last twice as long as the trip was supposed to take, safety codes that only the prison commander knows.

Without the codes, Charles can’t get the collar off by himself. There doesn’t seem to be any cracks or interlocking parts on the collar either, so prying the pieces apart isn’t an option. But, he thinks speculatively, the collar has to inject him to be effective and if there’s something blocking the needle…

He touches one of the blades. It’s small enough to fit between his neck and the collar without sticking out obtrusively, and it’s firm enough to withstand a jab from the needle without breaking. Plus, the collar’s metal might just disguise the blade’s metal. Erik wouldn’t notice if he weren’t paying attention.

Charles lets out a shaky breath. Finally, a workable plan.

A quick check of the clock on the holoscreen tells him it’s been an hour and thirty-eight minutes since his last dose. Perfect. He’ll hopefully have time to test the idea while Erik’s still out.

As he waits for the minutes to pass, he grinds one of the razor blades against the hard, scratch-resistant surface of the counter, hoping to dull the edge enough so that it won’t cut the skin of his neck when he tries it. Once it’s less dangerous than it was before, he tugs at the back of his collar, running his finger along the inside of the band to find where the needle comes from. When he locates it, he carefully slides the blunted blade over it and holds it there as he walks over to the holoscreen to watch the time.

Eight minutes…five…three…two…one…

There’s a hiss as the injection mechanism fires. Charles feels a weak jolt against his finger, but the blade holds. A soft _click_ indicates that the needle’s been withdrawn, and Charles slowly pulls the blade out and touches the back of his neck.

Unbroken skin. He’s skipped a dose.

He’ll need to skip more doses for his telepathy to begin to filter back, but even so, the sense of triumph is enormous. _Finally_ he’s achieved something. However slowly, he’s taking back control.

Elated, he hurries back to the bathroom and slips the razors back into the duffel. The blunted one he tucks apart from the others into the pocket of one of the folded sweatpants in the duffel, making sure it’s within easy reach. Two more hours and he’ll do this again. Two more hours and he’ll be that much closer to freeing himself from the inhibitor and, hopefully, from the captivity of this ship.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when someone starts pounding on the door, loud bangs that kickstart his adrenaline as his heart leaps into his throat, worse-case scenarios flickering through his mind in lightning-quick flashes: it’s Shaw, it’s Shaw’s men, they’re going to break down the door, they’re going to hold him down and—

“Hey, little pilot!” a voice shouts through the metal, and Charles can hear other men laughing in the background. “You in there? C’mere, baby, open the door for us.”

Charles doesn’t answer, pressed completely flat against the wall next to the bathroom, staring across the room at the door with sickening dread. If one of them is strong enough to punch through the metal, he has nowhere to go.

“Awfully quiet in there,” the voice continues loudly, banging on the door a couple more times, “maybe he can’t answer. I heard Erik keeps him all strung up like a pretty little present when he’s not using him. I know I would.”

“I heard Erik stuffs him up with a nice fat metal plug,” another voice chimes in, and Charles shudders horribly, teeth chattering, “makes him wear it all day long so his hole is good and loose. Then when Erik gets back he can just pull the plug out and slide his dick right in and rut ’em till he comes.”

“You all stretched out for us, sweetheart?” the first voice calls. Long fingernails are dragged slowly down the outside of the door. “Come let us in, we’ll be so good to you.”

Charles edges sideways until he stumbles backwards into the bathroom, pulling the door shut as soundlessly as he can. It muffles the voices and the pounding fists somewhat but not entirely; he can still hear their words clearly as the men outside continue to catcall and demand to be let into the room. Vision swimming, Charles digs through his duffle again and pulls out one of the sharp razor blades, sliding it between two of his fingers in one fist so that if he punches someone they’ll get the sharp end of the blade. Then he walks into the shower, hunkering down with his back in the furthest corner of the tiny stall, sliding down the wall to make himself as small as possible and sit with his head between his knees.

He’s not sure how long the inmates stay and harass him, their calls ranging from horribly violent to sweet promises that are somehow even worse as they continue to try and cajole him into opening the door. Charles tunes them out as best as he can, especially when they start talking again about what they’ve heard Erik does to him and what they’d like to try themselves, sinking down inwardly into himself and letting his mind go utterly blank, lost in empty thought of white noise.

Eventually he lifts his head, black spots dancing across his vision as all the blood that had collected while he’d kept it down for so long drains away in a heady rush, and realizes that everything’s gone silent again. They must have finally gotten bored and left.

It’s safe to go back out into the main room but Charles stays where he is, unable to muster up the energy or desire to move yet. The razor blade between his fingers has warmed to his body temperature but he doesn’t put that down either, staring straight ahead blankly at the bathroom door and not budging an inch, even when his legs start to feel cramped.

Another indeterminable stretch of time passes before he hears the crunch of metal that signals Erik’s return. “Charles?” Erik says once the door is shut again, no doubt nonplussed by the sight of an empty room. “Charles,” he repeats, sharper this time, and footsteps approach the bathroom door.

“I’m in here,” Charles croaks, his throat dry and his voice hoarse, “give me some fucking privacy, Jesus.”

Erik comes to a stop and is silent for a beat. “You’re due on the bridge in half an hour,” he says at last and then moves away, probably going back over to the holoscreen.

Charles gives himself another couple minutes before he tries to stand, legs creaking and joints protesting as he shakily straightens, reaching out to grab onto the towel rack for support. He isn’t old enough to feel so stiff, even after at least an hour of huddling on a shower floor, but his body feels old. The stress and the strain of everything that’s happened to him are starting to fundamentally get to him. He feels _ancient_.

He flushes the toilet just to add authenticity, and leans over the sink to splash his face with a few handfuls of cold water. Even his fingers are cramped from where he’d kept his hands balled into fists, and it takes him an extra moment to retrieve the razor blade with numb, clumsy fingers without cutting himself and shove it back into his bag. Then he’s free to scrub his face with both hands, enjoying the shocking bite of the cold water.

A good ten minutes pass before Charles emerges from the bathroom, tottering over to the table to sink down into the chair that’s furthest away from Erik, who sure enough has made himself comfortable in front of the holoscreen. A glance at the screen shows that he’s looking through more blueprints—blueprints, blueprints, blueprints, that’s all Erik ever seems to be studying, as if he’s trying to memorize every last nut and bolt of the ship. For what reason, Charles can’t say. He’s been left in just as much of the dark on that as he has been for everything else.

That’s one small consolation, though. Erik’s more interested in mechanics than he is in Charles. Things would be exponentially more hellish if Erik spent all his time focusing on Charles instead.

When it’s time to head up to the bridge, Charles makes himself swallow down a few mouthfuls of the paste even though he isn’t particularly hungry; who knows when he’ll be relieved from duty. He wraps a strip of cloth around the hand that’s supposed to be broken and pulls his boots on, and while Erik slips into the bathroom he squints over at the timestamp on the holoscreen. He’s got twelve minutes until the collar will try to administer another dose of the drug, which is hopefully enough time for them to get up to the bridge and get settled so Charles can...carefully scratch an itch on the back of his neck? He doesn’t know what he’ll do. He’ll have to wing it.

“I’m only dropping you off,” Erik tells him as they walk down to the elevators, “but I won’t be gone long. I’ll sit with you like always for the rest of your shift.”

“Alright,” Charles says tonelessly, a small flutter of hopeful anticipation stirring in his chest that he fights to not let show. It will be easier to sneak the dulled blade between his neck and the collar with Erik not present, even if there are still other inmates on the bridge.

If Erik finds anything strange about Charles’ calm—by his standards, lately—acceptance, he doesn’t say anything as they ride silently up to the bridge. The doors hiss open and Charles steps out, making a beeline for the pilot’s chair like usual but this time he lets his gaze flicker around the room once. There are only three other inmates up here today, and two of them pick themselves up from their various lounged positions and make to leave along with Ramirez.

“Nothing to report,” Ramirez says dully, staring straight through Charles and drifting past him like a ghost. It’s not even a formal sitrep by IF regulations, but it probably doesn’t matter anymore. There’s no point. He steps into the elevator with the two inmates and seconds later they’re gone.

“Will you be set?” Erik asks him as Charles logs himself into the ship’s computer, hovering to the side of the pilot’s chair.

Charles glances back to determine where the remaining inmate is, but the man is clear across the room on the opposite end of the bridge, playing with a comm link and ignoring them both. He’s come to expect that whatever inmates Shaw has posted on the bridge will leave him alone with or without Erik’s presence, and there’s no reason to believe that this time will be any different. Erik wouldn’t be leaving him if he wasn’t confident of the same.

“Don’t take too long,” is all Charles says, pulling up a few of the screens while checking the time again. Nine minutes. Plenty of time left to get Erik to clear out of here, and hopefully enough time for Erik to be gone long enough.

Erik doesn’t answer but he does turn away, and Charles pretends to be very busy reading the numbers being spewed out across his middle screen in relation to their fuel levels while he listens to the elevator doors open and close again. He very nearly sags with relief. He can do this. He’s going to skip another dose and be that much closer to having his telepathy back.

He eats up five more minutes by legitimately doing cursory checks over everything else, skimming through their radar reports and other energy levels and pretending to run a few more manual calculations on their current vector. He pushes himself up to his feet, glancing back at the inmate who still continues to ignore him, and walks slowly over to the navigation table. He pulls up the star chart, projected hologram shimmering into view above the plexiglass, and pretends to be absorbed by the slowly rotating stars. Four minutes. Three minutes. Two minutes.

The elevator doors hiss open and Charles jumps, whirling around and expecting to see Erik again, disappointment already curling in his gut. That disappointment quickly morphs into frozen horror as Shaw and four other inmates troop onto the bridge, all five of their gazes locking onto him immediately.

“There you are,” Shaw greets him cheerfully, “everything well underway, I expect?” He doesn’t wait for Charles to answer, instead gesturing his underlings forward. “Get him up.”

Charles takes a step back and runs into the navigation table, but then he has nowhere else to turn to as the four inmates surround him. Two of them lift him up completely and slam him down on his back on top of the table, making the holograms flicker while they each drag his arms painfully up over his head and hold them there. Charles kicks, too mindlessly terrified to even scream as he thrashes, struggling futilely in their grip, and the other two inmates crouch down, each grabbing one of his legs and pulling them down flat so that he’s bent back awkwardly over the table, hips hanging painfully on the edge.

“Now then,” Shaw remarks casually, gliding up to stand in front of him, “let’s see.”

Charles freezes as a cold hand pushes his shirt up to bunch beneath his armpits, exposing his chest and leaving him feeling even more vulnerable than he already does. He doesn’t have to look to feel Shaw’s gaze raking across him, muscles jumping every now and then in the inmates’ grasp because he can’t help that he’s started to shake, his lungs all but deflated and unable to draw in enough air.

“No markings at all?” Shaw muses, and Charles flinches at the touch of fingers skittering across his ribs. “Either Erik is a far gentler man than I imagined or he still hasn’t fucked you. Tell me, Lieutenant, has he made you take his cock yet? Be honest.”

“Y-yes,” Charles gasps out when the inmates holding his arms pull back on them harder, stretching him painfully far across the top of the table, “yes, he has—”

“Hm,” Shaw says thoughtfully, tracing the pad of one finger across Charles’ highest left rib slowly. “I suppose you wouldn’t lie to me now, not like this.”

“No,” Charles grits out, and tries not to let tears well up in his eyes both out of fear of what Shaw is going to do to him and frustration when he feels the familiar pinch in the back of his neck as the inhibitor collar doses him on schedule.

“Very good, Lieutenant,” Shaw replies, smiling at him. “I see you’re taking good care of your hand.” He looks pointedly at the cloth bandage wound around the hand in question and Charles feels another sharp bolt of fear. “Now I want you to listen very carefully, do you understand? I want to leave a message for Erik with you.”

Charles nods his head, and when Shaw raises his eyebrows he forces out, “Yes.”

“Good. Now then,” Shaw says, and he starts to slowly press his finger down on Charles’ rib until Charles is thrashing again, a small cry of pain forcing its way out past his lips under the relentless pressure of Shaw’s super strength. “The next time he fucks you, I want him to mark you up. Bruises, love bites, I want it all. I want to see art, Charles, is that clear?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Charles chokes, unable to move an inch in the inmates’ grip and escape the pain, which is making his chest feel like it’s on fire.

“Very good,” Shaw repeats softly, pleased, “and if I don’t get to see what he’s done to you next time, if you fail to deliver this message to him, I will crack your ribs one by one. My control needs practice, after all, and I wouldn’t want to _break_ your ribs, now, so it will be a good exercise. Understood?”

“Yes, god, _yes—_ ”

“Excellent.” With a gesture from Shaw, the other inmates release Charles and step away, leaving him sprawled on the table heaving for breath. But Shaw stays right where he is, close enough to reach out and cup Charles’ cheek tenderly. “You are a cooperative one, Lieutenant. But there’s still such fire in your eyes. Every time I think it’s gone, it comes back.”

“Why?” Charles whispers, too drained to even flinch away from him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I like to break things,” Shaw answers. He pats Charles fondly, like a father would a favorite child. The odd affection in his voice sends ice crawling up Charles’ spine. “It’s so satisfying to watch. To see how much it takes to make that fire sputter out.”

“You’re sick,” Charles says. Then, more strongly: “You’re _sick_.”

Shaw laughs. “I am what KG made me. Life there is much simpler than life outside, you know.” His finger runs down Charles’ side, across his shivering flank. “It may be brutal but there’s a beauty in it. A return to our animal roots.”

“Then why break out if you like prison so much?” Charles spits, trying to muster up some defiance. Laid out and vulnerable, all he feels is violated and helpless but Shaw doesn’t need to know that. All he needs to know is that Charles isn’t going to stop fighting him. He’s not going to _break_.

Shaw hums thoughtfully. “I suppose you could say I got bored of ruling a prison. King of a planet…now that has a much better ring to it, don’t you think?”

“King of an abandoned rock in an OZ is hardly worth bragging about.”

“An OZ?” Shaw smiles. “My dear lieutenant, you think so small. No, I’m going home. I imagine they won’t want me there but I’m…well.” He touches Charles’ bandaged hand. “I’m difficult to say no to.”

The bridge doors hiss open. Charles doesn’t have to look to know who it is; Shaw steps back immediately, his smile turning colder. “Erik.”

“What the fuck is going on here,” Erik says, every word brimming with danger.

“Nothing. The lieutenant and I were just having a friendly chat. Weren’t we, Lieutenant?”

Rolling off the table, Charles leans heavily on its edge, trying to breathe evenly. “Yes,” he croaks. “I’m fine.”

“There you have it.” Shaw claps him on the shoulder and squeezes. “Don’t forget what we talked about, Lieutenant.”

He and his men saunter out past Erik, who’s standing by the doorway with a thunderous expression on his face. As soon as the doors slide shut, he’s across the room by Charles’ side immediately, one hand going to Charles’ elbow to support him. “Did he touch you?”

Charles shakes him off, furious. “Yeah, he did. And he said—”

“He said?”

“He said next time you fuck me, leave marks, okay?” Charles snaps. He wants to sound enraged and indignant but his voice comes out strangled. His hands are shaking, even when he tries to steady them by clenching them into fists. And his mind is completely numb, completely silent. He’s back to square one.

God, is this never going to _end?_

Erik glances at the remaining inmate on the bridge, the one who had been playing with the comm link earlier. The man is still ignoring them, having likely decided that it’s not worth getting involved in. Thank god for small mercies, Charles supposes. He’s not sure he could handle any lecherous looks or comments right now. He already feels so irreversibly dirty.

“I’ll have words with him,” Erik promises. “You—”

“I just want to work,” Charles says wearily. “Just…stay over here.”

Erik doesn’t follow him back to the pilot’s chair. At least here, Charles can pretend everything’s alright. It’s just another shift, just another afternoon on the bridge. If it weren’t for the slight soreness that accompanies his every movement and the blankness in the back of his head where all the ambient whispers should be, he could convince himself that nothing’s wrong.

 

*

 

Hours later when Ramirez is marched back onto the bridge Charles’ hands are still shaking, but at least he no longer feels like he’s about to fly apart at the seams into a thousand pieces. Erik kept his distance for the rest of the duration of Charles’ shift, a silently lurking presence always on the periphery of Charles’ vision so Charles could track where he was at all times, and Charles is grateful that no attempts at any kind of talk were ever made.

Zombie-like, he informs Ramirez of the complete lack of change in anything aside from the slowly depleting fuel levels and then follows Erik onto the elevator. Charles hasn’t tried blocking the needle in his collar again even though it’s dosed him three more times now, his nerves still too frazzled to want to attempt sneaking the razor blade around in front of Erik, so his head feels empty and barren, the silence loud in his ears.

“Where are we going?” he asks wearily when Erik taps the panel for the fourth deck and the elevator begins to descend. He wraps his arms tightly around himself, trying not to sway where he stands. He doesn’t think he can take anymore surprises today.

“The medbay,” Erik answers quietly, and Charles is too tired to question why.

The fourth deck is the most crowded deck Charles has seen since Shaw’s takeover, though he supposes he hasn’t been out very much since most of his time is spent either in Erik’s quarters or on the bridge, and his single foray to the eighth deck had been in the dead of night one way. Inmates hang in groups and clumps here and there in the main passageway, falling silent and watching with hard, glittering eyes as Erik and Charles pass before conversation slowly picks back up again in their wake, but at least none of them make any attempts to grab at him. Even so, Charles sticks close to Erik, and it seems like a small eternity before they reach the door to the medbay.

Erik keys in a code and the door hisses open. He jerks his head sideways indicating for Charles to go in first so Charles obeys, stepping across the threshold and blinking in surprise when the door closes behind him, leaving Erik on the outside.

“What—god, Charles, is it really you?” Hank stands up from the small console he’d been sitting at in the corner of the deserted medbay, hurrying towards him past a row of empty biobeds and Charles has never been so relieved to see a friendly face in his entire life.

“It’s me,” he says faintly, and Hank reaches him just in time to catch him by the elbow to keep him from collapsing.

“Come sit down,” Hank says, drawing him gently towards the nearest biobed, “I don’t have full access to all of the medical supplies without Azazel here to watch, but I can check you over. God, I’m glad to see you. There have been horrible rumors flying about.”

“Have there?” Charles asks, allowing the doctor to sit him down on the edge of the bed. Because he’s been cooped up with Erik he has no conception of how else things are going on the ship.

“One of them is that Lehnsherr broke both your legs to keep you in bed,” Hank says grimly, “which I’m happy to see isn’t the case. Let me look at your hand.”

Charles can’t stop the shudder that comes at the thought of being trapped by broken legs. “It’s not broken,” he says belatedly as Hank unwraps the bandages on his hand. “Not anymore.”

Hank turns his hand over, puzzled. “I can see that. How?”

“There were some mutants, friends of Erik’s. They healed me.”

Hank’s brow furrows as he moves to pick at some of the handheld equipment on the nearby table. “Nice of them. What did you give them for it?”

“Nothing. It was a favor to Erik or something.” Charles thinks back to the conversation and frowns as the exact words filter back to him. “Erik said…I’d be useless to them if I couldn’t function.”

Hank’s eyes brighten in interest. “Do you get the feeling,” he asks lowly as he runs a handheld scanner over Charles’ healed left hand, “that not everyone on this ship agrees with Shaw?”

“It’s more than a feeling,” Charles replies. There’s no one else in the room but he’s still tempted to whisper. There’s no telling who’s listening just outside. “I know for a fact that Shaw doesn’t like Erik, and he doesn’t care about the inmates who don’t serve a purpose to him. He’s strong but he doesn’t have complete control over this ship.”

“Do you think Erik has an agenda?”

“I’m sure he does. He hasn’t told me anything yet, but I think he’s kept me alive and safe this long because he wants to use my telepathy.” It’s the best reason he’s been able to come up with on his own; Erik has asked Charles how strong his powers are, and he can’t think of any other use he’d have to Erik on this ship.

Hank raises his eyebrows. “And at what cost to you?”

Charles looks away. “Like I said. I don’t know.”

“You’re shaking, Charles,” Hank observes quietly after a few moments of silence, “are you alright?”

Charles knows he isn’t talking about the physical aspect of the word. “I—no,” he admits, stumbling over the word because he realizes after a pause that he doesn’t have to lie to Hank, “I’m exhausted, Hank. I’m terrified out of my mind and I’m tired of being afraid but Shaw has a personal vendetta against me for no reason and Erik—” his voice hitches, and he has to take a breath, staring down at the floor to avoid Hank’s horrified gaze, “—I had to sleep with Erik even though I didn’t want to and I want to go home, Hank.” Charles lifts his gaze at last, blurred by hot and heavy tears, and it feels cathartic in a way to feel sorry for himself for just a little bit. “I just want to go home.”

“Charles,” Hank says weakly, seemingly at a loss for any other words as he meets Charles’ gaze sadly. He sighs heavily, collecting himself. “What I wouldn’t give to go home too,” he says quietly, and Charles is grateful for the lack of pity. He doesn’t want it, not even from Hank, who is just as trapped on this ship as Charles is. “I don’t...I don’t see any hope of returning,” Hank continues slowly, “so I’m just trying to focus on doing my job. Helping anyone who they allow to come through those doors. It’s all I can do at this point.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Charles asks him shakily, even though he knows Hank can give him no good answer.

“Hold on for as long as you can,” Hank says simply, “though I’m sorry that I can’t tell you it’ll get better.” He laughs, mirthless and bleak. “I feel like I’ve been given a ward of terminally ill patients. I don’t want to sound like a downer, but…”

Charles lifts an arm to wipe his face on his sleeve, leaving the corners of his eyes damp. He takes a juddering breath, figuring that he can add emotionally to the list of ways he feels exhausted. “We still have a chance at the Gulesson. If one of us can even get a single SOS message out to Command…”

“That’s still a long way away,” Hank cautions, “and odds are we’re all going to be locked away down in the cells again for the entire time the ship is docked.”

“True. But I still have to believe that there’s a way for us to get out of this. I can’t accept that we’re going to be stuck here forever, or until Shaw gets tired of us and...” He lets the sentence hang.

“Of course,” Hank replies quickly, “I’d like to hope too. But I’m also trying to remain realistic. Unfortunate side effect of holding a degree in medicine, I’m afraid.” He manages to scrape up a small, brief smile. “I’ll help in any way that I can. If you’re able to get word to me, just let me know what you need me to do when the time comes.”

“I don’t know anything yet,” Charles repeats, but he gives Hank a nod in thanks and adds, “but I’ll try to keep you posted.” He shifts and winces when a twinge runs up his thigh.

Sharp as ever, Hank doesn’t miss it. “Anything else that I can do for you right now, though?” He pauses, clearing his throat before forging ahead with the perfect clinical detachment any doctor is capable of. “Was there any tearing during or bleeding after intercourse?”

Even so, Charles averts his eyes again. “No.” Erik had been painstakingly careful, and other than the mild discomfort that comes standard with having a large cock up your ass, Charles hadn’t been hurt at all.

They’re going to have to do it again, he thinks, drawing in a sudden ragged breath that has Hank looking at him in alarmed concern. He’s going to have to lie back on the bed again and spread his legs and let Erik fuck him, and this time Erik’s going to have to use his mouth all over him or otherwise Shaw will crack his ribs— _break_ his ribs, because it was all but implied.

“Charles?” Hank’s voice breaks through the fog that’s swamped him, drawing him back to the present. “Breathe out, Charles.”

Charles lets the air out of his lungs slowly. Get ahold of yourself, he thinks, you’re the one who was just telling Hank to stay optimistic. “It’s fine,” he says, waving Hank off when Hank makes movements towards the oxygen distributor on one side of the biobed. “I’m fine. I mean, I’m not hurt. Erik wasn’t...he didn’t…” He trails off wordlessly, not even sure how to finish that sentence.

“That’s...that’s good,” Hank says, actually wringing his hands for a moment before dropping them back down to his sides. It must be frustrating to be a doctor and know exactly how to help people and yet be unable to do anything, Charles thinks distantly. There’s nothing Hank can do for him, for any of the crew right now. Any attempts at soothing hurts and healing injuries will only be temporary at best, because the inmates will only hurt them anew. Hurt them more.

“Thank you, Hank,” Charles says anyway, and they both give small winces when their collars distribute another dose in unison. “Oh,” Charles says, glancing at the door before digging into his pocket, “I’ve discovered that the needle in the collars can be blocked. I tried it earlier and was successful, but I’ve missed the past few times because of...inopportunity.” He pulls his dulled razor blade out and offers it to Hank. “I have a couple left, so keep this one.”

“Brilliant,” Hank breathes, accepting the blade as if it were gold, “if you can block enough of your doses, you’ll have your telepathy back.”

Charles nods grimly. “That’s the plan. Pass the word along, though. If others can figure out how to find something small enough to fit between their skin and the back of the collar that’s strong enough to block the needle, then we’ll really be back in business.”

“I will whenever I can,” Hank promises, slipping the blade into one of his lab coat pockets. He grins. “I look forward to getting my strength back. I’ve felt like a wet noodle these past couple days. Though,” he adds quickly, chagrinned, “I suppose it has nothing on losing one’s telepathy.”

“No one likes being separated from their powers,” Charles answers, “it isn’t a competition.” He looks back at the door, paranoid now. “You’ll probably have an easier time at keeping up with blocking your doses than I will, but I’ll do my best. Erik hardly lets me out of his sight and his powers deal with anything metal.”

“Unlucky,” Hank remarks, but inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Do what you can, Charles, but don’t put yourself in danger.”

“We’re all in danger, Hank,” Charles says tiredly, “but I’m not about to take any largely unnecessary risks all the same.”

Hank pats him on the arm. “Why don’t you lie down and rest for a few minutes? You look like you could sleep for a hundred years.”

“I probably could,” Charles groans as he stretches out on the biobed. Immediately the bed’s systems begin to beep as they assess him. A white light passes underneath him with a low hum and Hank moves to the end of the bed to look over the results. At his frown, Charles says, “Not good?”

“You’re dehydrated and a little undernourished. Have you been eating?”

“The nutri paste mostly. Some dried fruit.”

“You need more than that.”

“It’s all I get.”

Hank’s mouth twitches in a flash of uncharacteristic anger. “They _need_ to set up something in the cafeteria, we can’t all survive on paste alone. Have you been sleeping?”

“Yeah.”

“How many times have you and Erik…?”

Charles closes his eyes and tries to keep his voice as neutral as possible. “Only once. But it’ll happen again.”

“Alright.” Hank hesitates for a moment before turning away to riffle around in the storage compartments behind him. “I can give you something for lubrication and for the pain. These are…” He shakes a small container of what looks like blue pills. “They can numb you up a little. Very light anesthetics. They’d help if you didn’t want to be…you know, really present while…while it’s happening.” Hank swallows. “I don’t know if Erik will allow you to take them but…”

“I think he will.” Erik doesn’t seem to take any pleasure in hurting him. Erik doesn’t seem to take much pleasure in fucking him either, so he probably won’t care if Charles is high and unresponsive for most of it. The pills would likely make it easier on both of them. “And some more lube would help, thanks.”

“I’ll put everything in a bag for you. Get some rest.”

The biobed must have a setting that quickly lulls its occupant into deep, fulfilling REM sleep because Charles wakes up some time later feeling more refreshed than he’s felt since the prison break began. Two voices are conversing quietly nearby and Charles keeps his eyes shut so he can eavesdrop.

“…be alright?” That voice is Erik’s.

“He’ll be okay,” Hank replies. “Remember, lots of water and at least two full nutri paste tubes a day. And if you’re going to…” His tone turns significantly cooler. “Please be gentle with him during intercourse. I’ve given him some supplies that should help with the ordeal but if you hurt him…”

The vague, half-formed threat hangs in the silence for a moment. Charles is touched; he and Hank aren’t very close but the doctor is still on the verge of growling at Erik in his defense. It’s an empty warning—with Hank collared, Erik could put him down with little more than a thought—but Erik only says, “I have no interest in hurting him, Doctor. If you can make it as painless as possible for him, then good.”

There’s a long silence before Hank says, “I can give him a balm for afterwards. It works miracles on sore muscles and it’ll heal any minor tears.”

“That would be good. How long has he been sleeping?”

“About half an hour. The biobed helps regulate sleep cycles so he should wake up with more energy than usual.”

“Wake him up. We need to go.”

“Now? He could use at least another half hour in the biobed. I’m not budging on that, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

“Doctor—”

“I’m awake,” Charles says before any arguments can begin. When he sits up, they both look over at him like he’s a small, volatile child that needs to be handled with safety gloves, which makes him distinctly uncomfortable and a little annoyed. “Are we going?”

“Get your things,” Erik says.

Charles slides off the bed and collects the bag that Hank assembled for him. He says thank you to Hank, exchanging a significant look with him, before Erik takes his arm and ushers him out.

They walk back to their quarters in silence but Erik leaves him at the door. “I have somewhere to be,” he says. “I don’t have to tell you to stay put.”

Charles nods and watches as the door welds itself shut between them, leaving him alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik have sex in order to appease Shaw. Neither of them wants it, but they consent to it between themselves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for minor use of painkillers as a recreational drug.

Charles takes advantage of Erik’s absence and spends his first few minutes of privacy sorting through what Hank gave him. There’s an abundance of paste tubes, several reusable canisters of water, the container of blue pills Hank had shown him earlier, another container of lube, and a box filled with a white lotion. The balm for use after sex, Charles assumes, setting it carefully aside. That’ll come in handy for when…well. When it comes in handy.

Once he’s packed the supplies away, he swallows down half a tube of paste and then shuts himself in the bathroom to grind one of his two remaining razors into a barrier against the injection needle. When he’s finished, he checks the time on the holoscreen, waits for the two-hour mark, and blocks the dose, just as neatly as before.

He can do this. Even if he’s knocked back three steps for every step forward he takes, he’s gradually making progress. And he knows he has an ally in Hank once he has a concrete plan in place.

His mind turns to Darwin, Angel, and the other crewmembers on the ship. How many are left? How many are still strong enough to put up a fight if it comes down to it? Is Captain Huxley still alive? Are any of the senior officers?

Huxley and most of the senior officers had been human. Their only saving grace had been that they had high security clearances, which would interest Shaw if he wanted information on IF Command. Had that been enough to save them? Surely Shaw—attention-loving, theatrical Shaw—would never have executed them behind closed doors. He would have made their deaths the main attraction of the day.

They must still be alive, Charles tells himself. The thought is slightly reassuring.

Erik’s gone for almost four hours. Charles skips another dose while he’s gone and pokes around Kirseth’s personal effects in the compartments under the bed. He finds nothing remarkable, no racy holovids or recreational drugs. The only thing of interest is a flat panel that Charles recognizes instantly as a 3D chess set. Curious, he pulls it out and carries it over to the table. The push of a button on the edge of the panel expands the game into its full, three-dimensional form, opening up into an unfinished game.

Spinning the game slowly with a flick of his hand, Charles wonders who Kirseth had been playing. The captain perhaps? Or an AI? Charles pushes a knight in a straight line on the third board and watches as the knight flickers back to its original position, accompanied by red banner that says, ERROR: INVALID MOVE.

When Erik returns, Charles is sitting with his elbows on his knees as he surveys the boards. Erik takes in the sight in silence for a long moment before moving to take the seat across from Charles, watching as Charles plays his rook forward. The AI he’s been pitted against moves one of the black bishops to capture Charles’ exposed pawn. In retaliation, Charles sets up a trap to capture its queen and, three moves later, does just that.

He expects Erik to comment but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply watches as Charles plays the entire game in silence, finally tipping his last white king as the AI corners him on the top board. It won three of the five boards, leaving Charles with two. PLAYER LOSS, the banner announces. Underneath is displayed a column of statistics: number of moves made, number of pieces conceded, percentage wins and losses.

Finally, after it’s clear that Erik won’t be the one to break the silence, Charles asks, “Do you play?”

Erik shakes his head. “I’ve seen a few games but I’ve never learned.”

“It’s not that difficult. Not much different from 2D chess, really. A good way to pass the time.”

There’s another lengthy silence as Charles resets the boards. When all the holographic pieces have flickered back into place, Erik leans forward and says, “Teach me.”

Startled, Charles stares at him. “Seriously?”

Erik meets his eyes steadily. “Seriously.”

He’s not joking. He wants Charles to teach him how to play 3D chess.

“Okay,” Charles says, trying not to reveal his confusion. “I guess I could. Um. Do you know how to play 2D chess?”

“No.”

“Oh. Alright. We can just…we’ll start with one board then.” He reprograms the set to display just the bottom board and spins it so that white faces Erik. “I’ll just teach you the basic moves first?”

Erik gives him a patient look. “That would be good, yes.”

“Right,” Charles coughs. “Er, this is the king. He’s the one you’re trying to protect…”

He spends the rest of the afternoon walking Erik through the basics of 2D chess. Erik is an attentive pupil and teaching him is surprisingly relaxing. The more Charles focuses on the game, the easier it is to forget about the situation he’s in, the easier it is to forget that the man sitting across from him is his captor, not his friend. He even cracks a smile when Erik grumbles about how stupidly the knight moves.

After a while, Erik’s mastered enough of the basics for them to try a real game. As they begin, Charles figures now would be a good time to try to get to know Erik better. Be personable with your jailor and all that. Make it hard for them to see you impersonally. He only vaguely remembers the optional course he took on hostage situations back at the Academy in his sophomore year, but he remembers that much.

“Where are you from?” he asks as he contemplates his next move.

Erik arches an eyebrow. “Small talk, Lieutenant?”

Charles shrugs. “I always talk when I play chess.” It’s not a lie; it used to irritate his opponents back at the Academy to no end. Charles called it a diversionary tactic.

Erik turns his eyes back to the board and for a moment, it doesn’t look as if he’ll answer. But then, as he reaches for a pawn, he says, “KG Penitentiary.”

“I mean, before then.”

“Nowhere.”

“Nowhere?”

Erik’s mouth pinches. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Charles raises a hand in surrender. “Alright. What _do_ you want to talk about?”

“Do we have to talk at all?” But then he adds before Charles can reply, “Where are _you_ from?”

“Old Earth originally. Corellia currently.”

Both of Erik’s eyebrows rise at that. “Old Earth? How the hell did you manage that?”

“My family is old money. I was born on Old Earth. Couldn’t afford to live there after my parents disinherited me.” Charles smiles wryly. “They didn’t really know what to do with a son who wanted to go sailing out into space rather than stay on-planet and head up the family business.”

“You gave up a place on Old Earth to go into the IF,” Erik says, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Why?”

Charles shrugs. “Distant parents, abusive stepbrother. It wasn’t worth it to stay. I saw a recruitment vid for the IF Academy on Helion Six and took a shuttle out the minute I turned eighteen. I haven’t regretted it since.” When Erik gives him a skeptical look, he manages a wan smile and admits, “I regret it a little now.”

Erik’s mouth quirks up briefly in amusement before it flattens out again into a frown of concentration. He nudges another pawn forward and watches as Charles mirrors his move on the opposite end of the board. “Have you eaten?”

The question is so innocuous Charles almost laughs. “Yes.”

“Good. Dr. McCoy said you should be eating at least two tubes of that nutri paste a day.”

Charles figures he should probably feel angry or confused that Erik’s choosing to show concern now. But he’s in enough of a relaxed mood that he’s able to tease. “Are you my nutritionist now?”

“I think Dr. McCoy might actually maul me if I let your health slip. He can be very intimidating when he wants to be.”

“It’s the fangs,” Charles says, and they almost smile at each other. Almost.

Clarity spills over Charles like ice water down his back. His heart suddenly pounding in his chest, he averts his gaze. What the fuck is this? He can’t be joking around with Erik. He can’t be speaking to Erik like he might speak to a friend. They’re _enemies_. Erik is a criminal and he’s killed members of Charles’ crew. He would have let Shaw brutalize Charles if he hadn’t found Charles useful for whatever reason. He as good as brutalized Charles himself, even if Charles had let him, even if Erik ostensibly hadn’t wanted to.

He stands up abruptly enough to startle Erik. “I’m—I’m going to shower,” he manages before spinning on his heel and making a beeline for the safety of the bathroom.  

Under the showerhead, with warm water sluicing down his body, it’s easier to put his thoughts in order and think. He’s going to have to get along with Erik, like it or not. They’re stuck together, and Shaw is hell-bent on making sure that they’re sleeping together. If Erik’s willing to be—not _friendly_ , friendly is much too close, but _cordial_ is a better fit; if Erik’s willing to be cordial and surficially pleasant, then there’s no reason Charles can’t be either. It’s possible to be amiable and not be friends.

Charles shuts off the water and towels himself dry. At this rate he’s going to be single-handedly responsible for their water supply to run out. He ought to start taking sonic showers. Maybe he’ll take one next time. Maybe.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Charles steps out of the shower and moves over to the sink to dig through his supplies again. He takes out the small bottle of pills and sets it down by the mirror and then pulls out the lube. If he slicks himself up now in here, things will go faster out there with Erik: all Erik will have to do is shove his cock in and go to town.

And get to work on marking Charles up, he thinks as he stares nauseously at the dark, finger-shaped bruise on his ribs, but Charles pushes those thoughts quickly away with a shudder.

He doesn’t give himself time to hesitate any longer, scooping out a liberal amount of lube on two of his fingers and lifting one leg to brace it up against the toilet seat, reaching up underneath his towel. His first finger slides in relatively easy, his ass giving nothing but that small, initial twinge of not-quite-discomfort that fades quickly into something more pleasurable as he carefully stretches himself. He bites his lower lip as he works his second finger in, fighting not to make a sound at the slick, intimate drag.

Normally when he does this to himself it’s with the singular purpose of getting himself off as quickly as possible, and he has to consciously stop his other hand from moving down to pull languidly at his cock, which is growing turgid and heavy between his legs already at the familiar motions. It also feels strange to have to hold back a little with his fingers and not probe deeper to seek out his own prostate for a little stimulation, too.

The point isn’t to enjoy yourself, he reminds himself harshly even as he begins to scissor his fingers to ensure that his ass is good and loose, the point is to get yourself ready so it won’t hurt when you let Erik fuck you.

When he’s certain that he’s just about as prepped as he can be, Charles withdraws his fingers and slowly straightens, setting his foot back down on the floor and wiping his hand off on the towel at his hip. His gaze falls on the small bottle still sitting on the edge of the sink. He picks it up, flipping it around to read the short label. Low-level pain killers that will probably leave him feeling numb and make his head a little floaty. Take only one. Do not combine with other drugs. See a doctor if effects last longer than four hours.

Charles hesitates, suddenly nervous. Telepaths are notorious for not taking to drugs very well, medicinal or otherwise. Hank said they were light, but Charles has no idea how strongly they’re going to affect him anyway even with his telepathy currently blocked, and he’ll be completely at Erik’s mercy for however long they last—what if they make him go limp as a doll and Erik takes advantage? He’ll be even more powerless than he already is.

Do not combine with other drugs. Charles is already chock-full of the inhibitor drug, even if he _has_ managed to skip two doses now. Hank wouldn’t have given him the pills in the first place, though, if it were dangerous for Charles to be taking them right now, so at least Charles can dismiss this concern with something close to certainty.

And then...what if they make him _come_? What if they let Charles drift so far away that he can’t still regulate how his body reacts to Erik, and he ends up enjoying it? Does it count as enjoying it if he orgasms while under the influence of drugs? More importantly—will he be able to forgive himself if he comes, and gives yet another concession to Erik?

Inexplicably annoyed with himself, Charles thumbs the cap off the bottle and pours one of the pills out into his palm. Without giving himself further time to deliberate, he pops the pill in his mouth and tilts his head back slightly to swallow. There. Now it’s done.

Now he just has to wait for it to actually kick in. He wonders how long it’ll take, or if he’ll even notice it. Then he realizes that he’s just spent a stupidly long time staring at himself in the mirror and oh. He already feels like his head has been stuffed with cotton on the account of his telepathy being blocked, but now it feels like an extra layer has been wrapped around the outside of his head too. When he takes a step, his feet feel like they’re hovering a couple inches off the ground and he’s filled with a sort of calm sense of detachment, like nothing much is going to bother him right now.

He’s ready.

Charles opens the bathroom door after a second or two of fumbling awkwardly with the mechanism, and walks out into the main room. Erik is still seated at the table studying the chess game but he looks up at Charles, lifting his eyebrows as he takes in Charles’ appearance. Ah, right, he’s still only wearing his towel when he usually comes out of the bathroom already fully dressed. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Charles answers. It’s not so bad, actually. He just feels a little light-headed, like he’s stood up too fast and needs to sit back down for a moment. It will be easy to just lie back on the bed and let Erik touch him. “You can fuck me now. Like Shaw wants. I’m ready.”

Erik stares at him. “You’re ready.”

“I prepped myself,” Charles says calmly, “so let’s just do what he wants us to do and get it over with.”

There’s another long moment where Erik just watches him. Charles stares back, or at least he tries to; his eyes keep wanting to drift closed, his thoughts running sluggishly slow, thick honey dripping off a spoon. Maybe he can just sleep through Erik fucking him.

Erik uncoils himself from his chair, rising gracefully to his feet and advancing slowly towards Charles. There’s a small furrow in his brow between his eyes, like he’s not understanding what Charles is clearly offering, but almost as soon as he comes to a stop directly in front of Charles his eyes narrow. “What did you take.”

“Pills from Hank,” Charles answers, leaning forward a little. At this close proximity he can feel the heat of Erik’s body, and he’s starting to feel a little cold on his own in nothing but a damp towel. “Would you just fuck me.”

“I’m not going to fuck you while you’re high,” Erik snaps, and Charles doesn’t understand why he’s so angry. It’s not like it matters. Erik makes a derisive sound when Charles says as much, and reaches down to yank Charles’ towel off, tossing it aside and leaving Charles standing naked in front of him. “It doesn’t matter?” Erik growls, and Charles gasps when a large, dry hand wraps around his cock and gives him a few tugs.

Charles groans, spreading his legs a little and half-falling forward to grip Erik by the shoulders, rocking his hips into Erik’s firm grip. He still knows he doesn’t actually want this, he thinks calmly as his cock hardens, but now he can just...go with it. Let it happen. It’s easier this way, when he doesn’t have to focus on why he shouldn’t want it.

Erik lets go of him suddenly and Charles gives a small whine in protest, hips jerking forward an extra time or two. He looks down numbly at his hard cock jutting up into empty air. “You don’t want this,” Erik says flatly, pushing him away. “I’m not going to fuck you while you’re not fully conscious of that fact.”

“So what, you _want_ it to hurt me?” Charles snaps, somehow finding anger though the calming fog and latching onto it with startling ease. “Is that what helps get you off, knowing that you’re fucking me against my will and that all I can do is lie there and think about that while you do?”

“I didn’t hurt you last night and you know it,” Erik sneers, “and you know just as well as I do that I’m only fucking you because Shaw wants it.”

“That doesn’t automatically give you a free pass!” Charles glares at him, hot all over now like his blood is boiling and not even caring that he’s still naked and exposed. “I heard what you said to Hank—anything that will make this as painless as possible for me is fine. _This_ is part of that.”

Erik steps right up to him and grabs him by the chin, pulling his head back so that they can both glare directly into each other’s eyes. “I’m just doing what I have to survive, Lieutenant,” he says in a low, controlled voice that brims with cold fury, “and you’d best start recognizing that. Shaw wants us to fuck, so we fuck. He’s king on this ship, and there’s nothing you or I can do about that right now.”

“Yes,” Charles says icily, trying to pull his chin out of Erik’s grip, “I realize that. That’s why I’ve been trying to get you to fuck me for the past five minutes.”

“I don’t think you really do,” Erik says, tightening his grip and shaking him a little. Charles’ hands come up to rest on Erik’s chest as if he means to push him away, but right now his muscles might as well be made out of playdough. “All you have to do to survive on this ship is fuck me, but you spend so much time wrapped up in whether or not it’s right or wrong to let it happen. Would you spend this much time deliberating on eating a steak? On whether it’s okay to eat an animal if you yourself are on the brink of starvation?”

“That’s a _completely_ different matter—”

Erik laughs, flat and mirthless. “No it isn’t, Lieutenant. Not on this ship.”

“That’s screwed up,” Charles whispers, “that’s sick and _screwed up_.”

“It’s also reality right now,” Erik says, unmoved. “Do what has to be done to survive. That’s the reality of living in the prison system, Lieutenant. You might not belong here, and you might not want to be here, but guess what—you are. And you’re stuck with me.” He lets go of Charles and turns away, striding towards the door.

“Wait,” Charles says, cold dread creeping up his spine, “you—we have to. You’re supposed to fuck me and leave marks—”

Erik stops and turns his head, eyes narrowed at Charles over his shoulder. “I’m not going to fuck you while you’re so high you wouldn’t even be able to tell if I’m hurting you or not,” he says scornfully. “You can label me a monster all you want for following Shaw’s decree to fuck you, but I won’t let you call me one for that, too.”

Erik throws open the door and walks out into the hallway, slamming it shut again with his powers loudly enough to make Charles flinch, and as soon as the metal has welded itself back into place with a particularly grating crunch, his footsteps move off down the hallway and Charles is alone.

 

*

 

In the end, the pill is more of a curse than it is a boon. Erik is furious with him for it, which is bad enough, but the pill’s effects also leave Charles scatterbrained and woozy, so when the time comes to skip another dose from his collar, he misses the window. It’s only when he feels the sharp prick at his neck that he remembers the dulled razor in his duffel and what it was supposed to do, and by then it’s far too late. He just curls up on the bed and lets his mind float, too exhausted to even despair.

Erik returns much, much later. Charles, who is dozing lightly, sits up immediately at the sound of the door and tries not to look as nervous as he feels. The anesthesia has mostly worn off, leaving him feeling just a little numb in the tips of his fingers. The room is dark with the night cycle so Erik is just a shadow moving toward the bathroom. The bathroom lights flick on as Erik enters and just before the door shuts, Charles catches a glimpse of blood oozing from a long scratch across his cheek.

Wide awake now, Charles slides off the bed and reaches automatically for his duffel, ready to grab the sharp razor blade inside. Was Erik attacked? Did any of his assailants follow him back here? For someone to have landed a blow on Erik, who can disarm and disable a man with a wave of his hand...Uneasiness churns around in Charles’ stomach like a bad meal.

Muscles tensed, he waits for several minutes, but no one comes knocking at the door. The only sounds he can hear are the ones Erik makes as he moves around the bathroom: a compartment opening, water running, a plastic package being torn open. When the water stops, Charles kicks his duffel back against the wall and settles on the bed again, not wanting Erik to catch him with his hand near the razor blade. A moment later, the bathroom door opens and Erik steps out.

“Lights, thirty percent,” Charles says softly.

The resulting light isn’t very bright but Erik still winces, blinking for several seconds before his eyes land on Charles. A ripple of displeasure passes across his face and he turns away to face the holoscreen.

“I’m…sorry,” Charles says to his back.

“Are you? What for?”

It’s a challenge, one Charles isn’t really sure how to answer. He’s still uncertain about where he went wrong with the pill. “For upsetting you,” he says finally.  

Apparently it’s close enough to what Erik wants to hear because Erik’s shoulders loosen slightly and he sighs. “You understand, don’t you?” he says stiffly, still turned away so Charles can’t read his face. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to _rape_ you. But I’m doing what I have to do to survive and you’re blaming me for it.”

Charles hesitates. Then he says truthfully, “I don’t blame you for it. It’s…it’s Shaw’s fault, no one else’s.”

“Then stop looking at me like _I’m_ Shaw,” Erik snaps. “I’m a criminal and a killer but this...don’t think for a _second_ that I’m enjoying this.”

Finally, _finally_ it feels like a door of understanding has cracked open in Charles’ head. Erik’s anger begins to make a frightening sort of sense and Charles presses his lips together, startled and relieved.

“In the beginning,” he says. “When you first claimed me in front of Shaw’s court. Would you have fucked me later if Shaw hadn’t insisted?”

“No. That’s not why I wanted you.”

“Then…” Charles takes a very deep breath. “Then I’m sorry we’re in the same shitty situation.”

Something changes. Erik doesn’t move physically but some tension seems to melt off him, and when he turns around, his expression is no longer a snarl. For a second, he looks about as tired as Charles feels, bone-weary in a way that sinks into your core and latches there like an anchor. He says, “Let’s get this over with then. Are you still…”

“Drugged? No.”

“Lubed, I was going to say.”

“Oh. Yes. But some of it might have dried.”

Erik nods at the bathroom. “You can prep yourself. And if you want to take a pill, then do it.”

“Really?”

“If it’ll make it easier.”

A little stunned by the reversal of his fortune, Charles hurries to the bathroom and shuts the door. The lube is right where he left it, next to the bottle of pills. Charles reaches for the lube first, coating his fingers and dropping his pants. The lube Hank gave him is a lot more long-lasting than he expected: his hole is still pretty slick and two of his fingers go in easily. But still, just in case, he spends a couple of minutes liberally applying more lube and then pulls his pants back up.

As he washes his hands, he eyes the pills, wondering if it would be worth it to take one. True, Erik’s given him permission, but lolling around half-conscious while Erik’s fucking him doesn’t seem…fair. It’s not as if Erik wants this any more than he does, and if they work together, they’ll be able to get it over with sooner. And besides, drugging himself up doesn’t help the collar situation. He needs to be lucid to remember when to skip the doses.

Pushing the bottle away, he scrubs a hand through his hair and stares at his reflection for a long minute. Then he takes a deep breath and opens the door.

Erik is sitting on the bed already naked, already half-hard, his hand working on his cock between his legs. Well then. They’re going at this at full speed.

“Lights on or off?” Erik asks.

“Er…off.” Better if they can’t see each other, Charles figures. Easier to pretend that it’s someone else.

“Lights off,” Erik says obligingly, and they’re plunged into darkness.

Shucking off his clothes, Charles crawls onto the bed but stops short of actually touching Erik. He can hear the slick sounds of Erik stroking himself and tries to pretend they’re in a rented room at a hotel on Corellia. He’s on shore leave, Erik is a nice man who bought him three drinks at the bar, and now they’re here to make a night of it. He’s done this a dozen times in smoky bars and dingy hotel rooms. This is muscle memory.

His eyes still adjusting, he shifts forward blindly and settles between Erik’s legs. He can feel Erik stiffen in surprise and the question on his lips turns into a sharp inhalation as Charles wraps a hand around his shaft and swipes his thumb upward, teasing the rounded head of Erik’s cock. “Charles,” he says, sounding strangled.

“Let me take charge?” Charles says in reply.

There’s a long pause before Erik’s legs relax slightly around him. “Okay.”

It’s easier this time, with Charles dictating the pace. He feels more in control when he’s not lying there passively as Erik fucks into him. Once he has Erik hard enough, he straddles Erik’s hips and slowly sinks down onto him, one gradual inch at a time. Erik’s thighs tremble underneath him, like he’s keeping himself from thrusting up. Charles grips his shoulder to steady himself and lets his weight carry him down, down, down, until Erik’s hips sit flush against his ass.

“Okay?” Erik says hoarsely.

“You should probably…um. Bite me.”

Erik actually laughs. It’s a small, short sound but it’s enough to loosen some of the tension still coiled up in Charles’ belly. This is ridiculous. What they’re doing, what they’re being forced to do—absolutely _absurd_. Charles laughs, too, more out of stress than anything else, and when he feels Erik’s mouth against his collarbone, he leans his head back and holds still as Erik’s teeth scrape against his skin.

It’s arousing, more so than Charles would like. His body has always been sensitive and when Erik sucks a delicate bruise into his neck, it’s all he can do to keep from moaning. _Don’t get hard_ , he pleads. _Don’t get hard, don’t get hard_ …

“Alright?” Erik murmurs.

Somehow Erik being considerate almost makes it worse. “Please just get it over with.”

In response, Erik winds his fingers through Charles’ hair and pulls his head down, tilting it to the side to give Erik access to his neck and ear. When his teeth close around Charles’ earlobe, Charles shivers and tries desperately not to make a sound. But he can feel his cock hardening against his thigh, an automatic response to the way Erik’s mouth is working over his skin. Damn his upper body for being an entire fucking erogenous zone. Now he half-wishes he _had_ taken that pill so he could just pass out, spare himself this humiliation, and wake up when it’s all over.

As Erik bites at his shoulder, Charles raises himself up tentatively and clenches as he pushes back down. Erik’s hips snap upward to meet him, driving his cock in more deeply than Charles expects, and Charles digs his fingers into Erik’s arm, gritting his teeth to keep in a whimper.

“Sorry,” Erik whispers and he’s—he’s actually _petting_ Charles’ hair, gentle strokes intended to calm him. It’s so terribly soothing and so terribly tender, like one lover to another. Charles hates him for it in that moment. He hates how _good_ he knows this could feel.

Without warning, he rises up again and sinks down, once and then again, thighs tightening as he chases a punishing pace. Clearly startled by his sudden vigor, Erik grips his hips and groans, his head lolling back against the pillows as Charles begins to ride him with fervor. The faster he can get Erik off, the faster this will be over—the faster he can roll over in bed and just go to sleep and forget about Shaw and Erik and everything that’s happened on this godforsaken mission. He just wants it to be _done_.

Erik starts to thrust up to meet Charles halfway, and the friction must be good because Erik seems to be unraveling with every passing second. Charles ignores his own hardening cock, ignores the way Erik is panting underneath him, ignores Erik’s mouth on his nipple, teasing it lightly between his teeth. He stares over Erik’s shoulder out the window into the darkness of space outside, fighting to keep his mind blank, fighting to bury any hint of pleasure. He’s not going to come if it kills him. He _can’t._

Erik’s harsh breathing quickens and he plunges up into Charles a couple of more times before he stills, arms wrapped around Charles’ back and face buried against his chest as he comes in long, wet spurts that make Charles clench a little automatically. Erik lets out a soft sound that makes Charles squeeze his eyes shut, forcing back the arousal that’s coiling in his gut. He’s breathing hard himself from having actually participated this time around, and for a moment they just stay sitting against the headboard, catching their breaths. _You’re fine_ , Charles tells himself firmly. It’s over.

They separate in a sticky slide of skin on skin. Charles rolls over to lie on his back and closes his eyes, pointedly not paying attention to the trickle of come running down his ass. He’ll get up to clean up in a moment, he decides. For now, he’s just going to lie here for a second and just…not think.

The touch of Erik’s hand against his cock makes him nearly leap out of his skin.

Erik blinks. “You’re hard.”

Awfully enough, he is. Even before this whole mission went to shit, it had been a long while since Charles had last gotten laid. Back-to-back operations usually leave him too exhausted to seek out much company and he’d somewhat kicked the habit of picking up strangers on foreign planets for a night of wild sex that he usually never remembered in the morning. Given that, he knows he can’t blame his body for reacting like this. But it still feels like a betrayal, like even his body has slipped beyond his control.

“You got me off,” Erik reasons. “Let me return the favor.”

Brushing his hand roughly away, Charles slips out of bed and wills his erection to fade. “No.”  

“Why not?”

“Because!” He can’t quite articulate the reason, but he knows taking pleasure in their situation would be the last straw. Shaw would win, and in light of all the ground Charles has already ceded to the man since the Serenity fell to him, he won’t give him this.

He takes a deep, steadying breath and says, “I’m going to take a shower.”

Erik’s frown is obvious even in the darkness. “You’re making this more difficult on yourself than it has to be.”

“No,” Charles snaps, “everything is already difficult. I’m making it so I can live with myself afterwards.”

When he finishes with the bathroom half an hour later, feeling moderately cleaner, Erik is back at the holoscreen, his mouth pressed in a thin line in concentration. For a moment, Charles is afraid that he’s pissed Erik off and that they’ve slid back into the cool, borderline-hostile status from before. But then Erik glances over at him and says, “Are you sleepy? Or do you want a game of chess?” and Charles’ answering smile is weak but genuine as he sits down on the white side of the board.

 

*

 

Somehow, slowly but surely, a month passes, and Charles would be surprised at how easy things have become if he let himself think about it. They settle into a routine, still tracking wary orbits around each other but at least now they have a mutual understanding of where they both stand in their situation and Charles finds it makes all the difference.

In the mornings Erik pours over his endless files of blueprints, always already up at the holoscreen whenever Charles wakes. Charles isn’t even sure where Erik actually sleeps, because he knows for certain that they don’t share the bed; that domain is Charles’ alone unless they’re fucking. He’s not sure whether to be grateful or relieved that Erik lets him sleep alone, and always ends up quickly sliding out of the blankets and into the shower before any sure-to-be awkward morning greetings can be exchanged.

As soon as Charles is out, Erik makes sure he’s gotten his tubes of paste food for the day and then disappears for at least four hours, which Charles knows because it always gives him enough time to block his inhibitor drug dose once, sometimes twice depending on how the intervals work. He still hasn’t worked up the nerve to try blocking the needle while Erik is present but he still tries when Erik is gone on the off chance Erik will be away long enough for Charles to block even more doses and regain his telepathy. So far this hasn’t happened yet, but he has to keep trying.

Their afternoons are spent playing chess until Charles is due on the bridge to take over for Ramirez. Erik turns out to be a quick study, mastering the basics of the game over the course of their first week together and becoming a surprisingly—though in hindsight, Charles isn’t sure why he’s surprised in the first place—formidable opponent. He’s ruthless enough with his pieces on the board that he actually manages to defeat Charles handily several times on the regular 2D board, annoyingly smug whenever Charles has to tip his white king over. He still has a long way to go in the full 3D version of the game, his impatience usually his undoing as he has yet to beat Charles on more than two boards, though Charles has no doubt that Erik will soon master it as well.

And then there are the hours spent keeping watch on the bridge. The Serenity continues to fly deeper and deeper into the wild space of the OZs as the weeks slip away, and all Charles can do is ensure that they stay on the course Shaw wants to take to the Gulesson. He knows that by now IF Command has to have realized that the ship has gone rogue, but doesn’t hold out much hope for anyone catching up to them. They left their original plotted course behind the night Shaw and the inmates took over the ship, 12 days out from the KG. By the time any IF ships reach the Serenity’s last known coordinates, any traces of the Serenity will be long gone. He hopes that Moira isn’t blaming herself for assigning him on this mission.

He aches deeply whenever he thinks of Raven and the baby.

Time spent on the bridge isn’t altogether unpleasant, however. Charles runs through his checks and then settles in to pass the time with Erik watching somewhere nearby. Erik hasn’t left him alone on the bridge since the time Shaw came up unannounced, and Charles is grateful. They talk, stilted and awkward at first until conversation gets to flowing more smoothly, most of the topics centering around Charles and stories from his childhood on Old Earth and also his IF Academy days. He still doesn’t know much about Erik, like where he’s even from or why he was sentenced to prison in the first place, but Erik is an attentive listener, focusing on Charles with an intensity that’s almost startling at times, like he’s trying to soak up every last word Charles says like a sponge to keep forever.

Shaw hasn’t come back up to the bridge yet, but it’s only a matter of time before he makes good on his threat to check on Charles, so in the nights when Charles is relieved of duty by an increasingly worn-looking Ramirez, he and Erik go back to their quarters and fuck. Charles usually slicks himself up in the bathroom and then comes out to climb on top of Erik and ride him all the way to Erik’s completion or lies back on the bed to let Erik crawl over him, allowing Erik to lick, kiss, suck, and bite at his neck, his shoulders, his chest; anywhere but his mouth. The first time Erik tries to kiss him on the lips, Charles nearly punches him in the face reflexively, shoving Erik off himself and crawling backwards up the bed until his back hit the wall, curling in on himself defensively.

“What—?” Erik is breathless, surprised and confused as he blinks uncomprehendingly at Charles, his cock straining upwards between his legs where he crouches awkwardly on the bed over the spot where Charles had been laid out beneath him a second ago.

“Don’t kiss me,” Charles answers in between his own panting.

Truth be told, he’s half-surprised at himself too. He’d been fine up until that point, staring up at the ceiling and handling it while Erik had sucked on his neck and scraped his teeth against Charles’ pulsepoint while rocking into Charles at his usual steady rate. But then Erik had shifted, moving up along his jawline and then his lips had nearly been over Charles’ and Charles isn’t sure where the sudden burst of claustrophobic panic had come from, prompting him to react as if Erik’s touch burned him. All he knows is that he suddenly had to get away.

“Sorry,” Erik says after a moment, his voice strained but he does sound genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—it was in the moment. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s alright,” Charles says, suddenly tired. He’s tired all the time these days; there are some days where all he does is lie listlessly on the bed, too lethargic and weak with the ever-present hunger gnawing at his belly to summon up the energy for even a game of chess. But now the weariness feels bone-deep, seeping down to his marrow. “Just—don’t.”

“I won’t,” Erik says, and Charles believes him. At least Erik isn’t angry with him, and taking it as a personal slight, because it’s not personal. Not at all. Charles just doesn’t think he could bear it—at this point, kissing seems like it would be more intimate than what they’re doing.

Slowly, Charles uncurls himself again and scoots tentatively towards where Erik sits. “Come on. Let’s finish.” He has a feeling Erik is trying not to look too relieved as he nods.

Overall, though, having sex with Erik is easier now that it’s just been regulated to nothing more than a chore that’s part of their routine; like Charles is back at home in his apartment and has to remember to water the lone plant on his kitchen windowsill, which is probably shriveled and dried by now. Afterwards, looking at himself in the mirror, Charles thinks he looks like he’s been mauled, but the bottle of pills on the sink counter remains untouched.

Sometimes he lets Erik be the one to prep him, and splay Charles out on his back on the bed and slide his long, slender fingers into Charles’ hole to gently work him open before replacing them with his cock. Unlike the very first time they fucked like this, Charles lifts his hands to rest them on Erik’s shoulders and moves his hips up into Erik’s thrusts, helping bring him off faster.

Just as he never allows Erik to kiss him directly, Charles never allows himself to come; no matter how tightly his toes might curl if Erik’s thrusts hit him in just the right spot or how hard his own cock grows in reactive arousal, he always bats away Erik’s hand if Erik makes any kind of motion towards Charles’ cock to help bring him off. Letting Erik fuck him and leave all kinds of markings on him is easier now, but that doesn’t mean he wants to enjoy it. Not when both of them are still being forced to do this under duress.

Before he knows it, Charles has spent ten weeks surviving in deep space at the mercy of escaped convicts. His entire world has narrowed down to Erik, the quarters he shares with Erik, and the Serenity’s bridge.

Charles still actually hasn’t seen Shaw since he’d made the threat of snapping Charles’ ribs, but it’s not hard to imagine that it’s part of Shaw’s entire game with them: let them squirm on their own for weeks, forced to keep fucking every night just in case tomorrow is the day Shaw chooses to make his inspection of Charles. It’s certainly working.

Even so, the days have all blurred together and Charles only realizes how much time has passed when Erik leans back from him one night after finishing, his come still leaking hot and wet out of Charles’ ass as Erik rubs his upper lip with a small frown. “You’re giving me beard burn.”

“I’m sorry, is there something about this situation that’s making _you_ uncomfortable?” Charles asks him dryly, but without any real heat or ire. He’s made his peace with allowing Erik to fuck him—mostly—even though he still refuses to gain any enjoyment from it. He can’t help the occasional comment every now and then, though. If it helps keep Charles sane, then Erik can just put up with it.

Through the dark, the stars outside the window their only source of light, Erik gives him a rueful look. “You’re right,” he says, conceding the point.

“Wait,” Charles says after a moment of studying Erik’s face, “you’re still clean-shaven.”

“Yes,” Erik answers, drawing the word out into almost a question, eyebrows slightly raised.

Charles makes an impatient sound, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “How are you shaving, then, and when can I?” He still has a single sharp razor blade left that’s buried in his dufflebag, but it would be rather obvious now if he snuck it out for a quick shave. Erik would find it, take it away from him, and probably discover the dulled blade that Charles still uses to block his collar doses when he can, too.

Erik eyes him appraisingly in the dim light. “I kept the first officer’s sonic shaver.” He reaches out slowly, broadcasting his movements so Charles has time to pull away if he wants, but Charles remains still as Erik deftly touches the side of his jaw, tilting his head sideways a little. “It’ll be tough trying to use it on yourself with the collar on, but I can do it for you if you want.”

Charles swallows, taking a moment to answer. It’s on the tip of his tongue to just ask Erik to remove the collar, just this once, just so Charles can shave himself. But for all the time he’s spent in Erik’s company over the past few weeks, he still isn’t sure of how stable his footing with Erik is, and whether or not such a request will set off the temper he knows Erik is capable of. Charles has no desire to return to the early days of their forced companionship, when Erik would choke him with it to ensure obedience, so he decides not to push it.

He wants to, though. The collar at his throat is designed to be lightweight to avoid placing any physical strain on the wearer, but to Charles it might as well be a neutron star, crushing and oppressive both physically and mentally. He knows that taking it off won’t automatically restore his telepathy instantly, but to go for even just an hour without the cold metal encased around his neck…

“Can I trust you?” are the words that come out of his mouth instead, quiet in the small space between them. It’s strange, in a way, to still be sharing the bed this soon after sex: usually one of them flees shortly after. Charles doesn’t know what he means by the question; it’s not like he’s ever had a choice in trusting Erik anyway.

“I hope so,” Erik answers him, solemn and unblinking, and something inside Charles gives way just a little more.

“Okay,” Charles says, pushing himself forward to slide off the side of the bed to his feet and giving a small wince at the twinge of soreness in his ass, “let’s do this.”

Bending down to pull on the sweatpants he’d been wearing before, Charles moves off towards the bathroom without waiting to see if Erik is following or not. The pants are a bit of a moot point—modesty has been lost between them both from the get go—but he figures he’s probably going to end up perched on either the toilet or the sink counter, and would rather have the fabric to buffer his bare skin from the cold.

The bathroom light flicks on for him as soon as he steps across the threshold, and Charles has to squint his eyes and blink several times before his vision adjusts to the brightness. He can hear Erik digging around in one of the storage bins he keeps welded tightly shut out in the main room, so Charles takes the opportunity to study himself in the mirror.

Bruises litter his collar bones, and a ring of teeth marks stands out on his right shoulder. His neck is always a massive bruise, especially around the edges of the collar, but above the metal, beneath his chin and where his prickly facial hair hasn’t grown too thick, Charles can make out smaller bruises scattered across his pale skin.

He’s lost a bit of weight, his ribs standing out a little more prominently than they did at the start of this trip, mostly due to the fact that he’s been living on nothing but nutri paste for over two months now—his face is gaunter, his cheeks hollow and his eyes a paler blue than he thinks he remembers them being, like all the stress and sorrow has leached even his eyecolor. The bruise left by Shaw over his ribs has faded but Erik’s done a fine job of replacing it; Charles is covered with more bite marks and fingerprints across both sides of his torso than he’s ever been in his entire life. He looks loveworn.

When Erik steps into the bathroom Charles’ eyes are closed. “Charles?”

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically, waiting until he’s angled himself away from the mirror before opening his eyes again blearily. “Where should I…?”

“The counter’s fine.” Like Charles, Erik’s only pulled on a pair of pants and remains barechested, holding Kirseth’s razor kit along with a small washcloth. As Charles hops up onto the counter, back to the mirror with his legs dangling a few inches off the ground, the tap turns itself on courtesy of Erik’s powers and Erik sets the razor kit down on the other side of the sink. “You want me to get it all, or would you prefer some scruff?”

“Just get it all,” Charles says after a beat. The freshly-shaven look always leaves Charles with a bit of a baby face, making him look impossibly young, but Shaw’s going to want a clear view of the marks Erik’s left and that trumps any of Charles’ desires to avoid looking like jailbait.

It’s too late for that, he thinks to himself, and suddenly has to hold in a helpless laugh. He _is_ jailbait.

“Your hair’s getting a little long, too,” Erik says, looking at him sidelong while he wets the washcloth underneath the tap. “I can trim it for you if you want.”

Charles thinks about it. His hair isn’t long by any current standards, but it has gotten a little shaggier over the past few weeks. The hair at the back of his neck sometimes gets caught by the back of his collar, and it’s annoying when it yanks on him. “Yes. Just don’t shave me bald.”

“I’ll do my utmost to avoid that,” Erik answers dryly. He lifts the can of shaving cream up with his powers and squirts out a dollop into his palm. “Tilt your head back as far as you can.”

Nervous, suddenly, Charles does as he’s told, tipping his chin back to leave his throat exposed. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, so he ends up gripping the edge of the counter on either side of his thighs, perhaps a little more tightly than necessary. The wet washcloth is warm when Erik does a few cursory swipes across the lower half of his face and then his neck, leaving him damp before he starts to apply the cream. His touch is gentle and efficient, spreading the cream out in a thin, even layer across Charles’ skin, and slowly Charles’ nerves settle, tension easing from his shoulders.

“At least these things make the process go faster,” Erik comments as he starts up the sonic razor. Since he’s never owned one himself, Charles isn’t entirely sure how they function; all he knows is that they have an array of tiny lasers that serve to painlessly remove any unwanted hair.

“I prefer actual razors, myself,” Charles dares to reply as Erik sets to work on the left side of his face, tracing the sonic razor carefully down his jawline. It doesn’t feel much different than a normal razor dragging lightly against his skin.

Erik quirks up an eyebrow in interest. “So do I. I get better control with real blades.”

“Ah,” Charles says. A glance backwards into the mirror reveals that Erik isn’t touching the razor at all, instead using his powers to hold the device up to Charles’ neck. He lets out a shaky breath.

“Don’t worry,” Erik says absently, focused on wiping away some of the leftover cream with the washcloth in the razor’s wake, “I can hold things a lot more steadily with my powers than my hands.”

“Okay,” Charles says, a little breathless with twisty uncertainty, so Erik pauses, pulling the razor back a little.

“Close your eyes, Charles,” Erik says, curling one broad hand gently around the back of Charles’ neck, offering support for Charles’ head while his thumb swipes across the soft skin just below Charles’ ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not by _my_ choice.”

Charles takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, allowing his eyes to slide closed. He feels Erik get back to work, slow and careful over the angles of Charles’ chin, but the sensation is far away as Charles lets himself drift, his mind going blank as he quiets his thoughts. Even when the razor passes over his jugular Charles doesn’t react, holding still in Erik’s warm grip. It could take Erik five minutes or it could take Erik an hour; Charles wouldn’t know.

It’s peaceful, quiet in the cramped little bathroom hidden away from the rest of the ship, the rest of the galaxy, allowing Erik to take care of him. Erik’s been his only point of human contact for weeks now, aside from the occasional random inmate posted on the bridge. Charles can’t deny that it helps, massively, that they touch on a regular basis; mostly when they fuck but right now it’s relieving to be touched in a way that has nothing to do with sex. His head is still silent and empty where his telepathy should be, but if he’d been left without simple, physical touch too he’d be a lot worse off.

A small tap comes on his knee and without being told Charles spreads his legs a little wider so Erik can step up between them and lean in closer. Charles comes back to himself at that, hyperaware of Erik’s warm presence hovering above him. It’s hard to ignore for all the heat Erik seems to naturally radiate, and Charles shifts, which Erik takes as another sign of unease.

“I just need to get the spot right above the collar,” Erik murmurs, so close now that Charles imagines he were to open his eyes, their faces would be inches apart. “Almost done.”

Charles doesn’t nod, instead merely tipping his head back just a little further to grant Erik easier access. He feels Erik start to carefully run the razor over his skin along the metal edge of the collar, unable to hold back a wince when he reaches some of the more tender bruises left by the unforgiving metal.

“Sorry,” Erik whispers, so terribly gentle as he wipes the cloth over Charles’ skin.

Charles can’t answer, heart in his throat at how careful and soothing Erik is being with him where Shaw can’t see. Shaw is a monster for putting them both in this situation, where Erik is forced to go against his true nature that Charles is witnessing now, that he witnesses every time he lets Erik settle down between his legs. Erik’s no mindless brute that takes pleasure in holding Charles down and fucking him like any of the rest of Shaw’s lackeys would.

“There,” Erik says with one last brief wipe of the washcloth, drawing Charles back up out of bitter thoughts, “all set. Let me know if I’ve missed a spot.”

Straightening, Charles blinks his eyes open, Erik and the bathroom swimming back into view. He lifts a hand to feel his face and throat, drawing his fingertips across soft, smooth skin. Erik turns off the sonic razor, the sudden absence of its soft hum making the silence seem loud as he stores it away in the kit. He’s looking at Charles, something unreadable in his gaze as his eyes follow the path of Charles’ fingers, and Charles finds himself wondering what it would be like if they had a normal razor, with metal blades instead of lasers, easily manipulatable by Erik’s powers.

“Ah—it’s good,” Charles says, fumbling with the words after he realizes his silence has been a few seconds too long. “No missed spots. Thank you.”

“Good,” Erik says. They both come to realize that Erik is still standing pressed up between Charles’ legs at the same time and he hastily withdraws, taking a step or two back to give Charles space. “I should’ve offered sooner.”

“I hadn’t thought about it until you brought it up,” Charles admits weakly, sliding his legs closed and looking somewhere off in the direction of the shower. When he’s confident enough to look back, Erik’s still watching him. “So, haircut?”

“Yes,” Erik agrees quickly with a nod, stepping forward towards the kit, “I think there are regular scissors in here.”

“Sounds good,” Charles manages, and since he’s feeling a little exposed sitting up on the counter he slides down to his feet to stand up instead.

It’s still another week before they finally run into Shaw again. Things are going like usual up until the point Charles steps off the elevator and onto the bridge, and he’s almost even in a good mood, having just wiped the floor with Erik on all five 3D chess boards before it was time for his shift. The feeling evaporates instantly and he stops immediately in his tracks so that Erik actually runs into him from behind when he sees Shaw standing by the main console with a posse of inmates, waiting for them.

“Afternoon, boys,” Shaw greets them, visibly pleased to see how unsettled Charles is, “come on in, don’t be shy.”

Charles doesn’t seem to be able to get his legs moving properly, remaining rooted to the spot with no desire to move even an inch closer to Shaw, but Erik takes his arm—he’s much gentler now than he ever was before, gripping him firmly but not tight enough to bruise—and tows him further onto the bridge, walking towards Shaw but stopping when they’re still a few feet away.

“Well, you know why I’m here,” Shaw says, smiling broadly, “off with the shirt, Lieutenant.”

Charles wants to glare at him, but he’s come to realize that’s only giving Shaw exactly what he wants: a reaction. Instead he hardens his face into what he hopes passes as a blank mask, wordlessly shrugging off his shirt and holding Shaw’s gaze while he stands waiting for assessment. Erik is a solid presence at his side, tense and no doubt ready to take a leap at Shaw if he tries to come any closer. It’s one small comfort.

Shaw makes no effort to disguise how his eyes rake across Charles’ bare chest, taking in all the bite marks and bruises Erik has carefully left, Charles’ own personal constellations amongst the galaxy of his freckles. “Well, well,” he says at length, when both he and his group of lackeys have looked their fill, “I am impressed, Erik. Do you see now how you were squandering all that lovely pale skin?”

“Put your shirt on,” is all Erik says coldly, and Charles hastens to obey, glad for the chance to get even one more flimsy layer between himself and Shaw’s lecherous gaze again.

Shaw is amused. “Oh, Erik. The things you should be doing to that boy. Were he mine, I’d leave him naked and have him crawl along on the floor behind me like the military dog he is. With your powers you could even make him a leash.”

Charles can’t help the shudder that runs down his spine in horror, and beside him Erik grits his teeth so hard he hears them creak. “You’ve seen what you wanted to see,” Erik says stiffly, “now don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“So eager to be rid of me?” Shaw asks, leaning casually against the pilot’s chair. “I’ve seen _you_ often enough, but it’s been ages since I’ve seen your little pet. What is it you do up here for hours while your boy does his job? I can’t imagine it’s all that exciting. Do you fuck him up here? I wouldn’t mind it if you take him up against the console, but just be sure not to hit any wrong buttons. We wouldn’t want to veer off-course just because you were busy making the Lieutenant scream.”

“It is mind-numbingly boring,” Erik answers flatly, “far beneath the likes of you I’m certain.”

“Life can’t be exciting all the time,” Shaw allows, and pats the armrest of the chair. “Come along, Lieutenant, you have a job to do.”

The thought of sitting down with Shaw standing over him makes Charles nauseous, but he resists the urge to glance at Erik and walks slowly over to the pilot’s chair, skirting around the far side and settling down gingerly on the edge of the seat, ready to leap up at the slightest touch from Shaw, who remains standing to Charles’ right but turns around to face the console. Erik takes up residence to Charles’ left, and Charles has never felt more like a pawn trapped between two kings on a board that he can’t see the entirety of, playing by rules he doesn’t understand.

Charles keeps his left hand down in his lap and slowly enters his credentials into the computer to log in to the system, pulling up one new screen at a time once he’s been granted access. Shaw is silent while Charles skims through the engine readouts and does a few calculations regarding their fuel levels, but Charles doesn’t dare glance up to see if Shaw is watching him or the screens.

“I’m actually surprised at his lack of bruises, Erik,” Shaw remarks at last while Charles is carefully scrawling out a new line of numbers with one finger, “for the amount of insolence he’s shown I would have imagined that you’d have to beat him down into submission.”

Charles freezes, hand jerking slightly and messing up the three he’d been in the middle of writing. If Shaw is about to add _real_ bruises to the list of things he wants Charles to be sporting...he can’t do it, Charles thinks numbly, trembling slightly. He can handle Erik fucking him, he can handle Erik sucking small bruises into his skin with his lips and teeth, but if Shaw demands that Erik beat Charles bloody—

Erik settles a hand on Charles’ shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. For Shaw, it’s meant to look like Erik is giving Charles a pointed warning for having frozen so Charles collects himself and starts writing out his numbers again shakily. At least he knows Erik well enough by now, he thinks, recalling instances of Erik squeezing his hip after a particularly hard thrust of his cock, to he know what it really means: reassurance, and apology, for whatever Erik’s going to say next.

“There’s no need for me to beat him,” Erik says emotionlessly, staring straight ahead out the main display, “not when he’s so willing and eager to take my cock.”

Shaw laughs, delighted. “My, Lieutenant, you’re just a gift that keeps on giving,” he says, and Charles doesn’t have to fake humiliation with the way his cheeks are burning, “I never would have pegged you as a little cockslut. Though,” he adds with another chuckle, “I would’ve pegged you with something _else_ had I known you were so desperate for it.”

The other inmates on the bridge all laugh as Charles shudders, hating Shaw, and Erik gives his shoulder another small squeeze. Charles finishes out his calculations and slides sideways in his chair, shying away from the side Shaw stands on before pushing himself to his feet, slipping past Erik to walk mechanically over to the navigation table to input his results manually to see how their fuel levels line up with the rest of their plotted course. Erik follows at his heels, which makes the other inmates back up a little and give Charles space.

“How are we doing, Lieutenant?” Shaw asks him pleasantly after a few moments.

“On track,” Charles reports tonelessly after the Serenity’s course has lit up across the star chart along with calculated fuel levels for each leg of the journey, distantly proud of the way his voice doesn’t even tremor, “we’ll reach the Gulesson with a little fuel left to spare.”

“Very good,” Shaw says, satisfied. “It will be an easy matter to refuel once we’re there.”

It suddenly occurs to Charles that there is no possible way the Serenity carries enough credits onboard to pay for Shaw’s planned refuel, and with a chill he wonders how Shaw plans to compensate for that.

“You have to admit, though, Erik,” Shaw says thoughtfully as he folds himself down into Charles’ vacated chair and propping his ankle up on his knee, “he _would_ wear bruises _very_ well.”

Erik growls, and in the next second Charles finds himself tugged over and tucked against Erik’s warm, solid chest, one of Erik’s arms dropping down across his back to hold him in close. “He would,” Erik acknowledges coolly, and Charles shuts his eyes, going limp and still so that Erik can tip Charles further in against himself, “but I’m not interested in damaged goods. See how he leans into me. If I beat him, he’ll flinch away, and that’s not what I want from him. I like him like this. As long as he is obedient, there’s no point in ruining a good thing.”

“Oh, Erik,” Shaw says, fondly amused, “my gentle boy, how had I forgotten. I think you’d come to enjoy his cries, though.”

“We all can’t be as sadistic as you, Shaw,” Erik says coldly, trailing his hand across Charles’ back when Charles shivers despite himself. From the outside it probably looks possessive, which can only help their cause. He’s glad his face is hidden against Erik’s chest, so Shaw can’t see the way he grits his teeth.

“Certainly not,” Shaw allows with another amused laugh, and Charles can’t help but feel that they’ve dodged a planet-sized bullet.

He should go over to one of the other consoles and jot down his calculations into the ship’s log too, but for the moment he stays where he is, pressed up against Erik with his eyes closed and forehead resting against Erik’s shoulder. As ridiculous as it makes him feel, it’s a show that they have to put on for Shaw, and even Charles can’t deny that it’s currently the safest place on the entire bridge, the entire _ship_ , for him to be.

“You boys have a good evening,” Shaw tells them as he passes by, “and don’t distract the lieutenant from his job _too_ much, Erik.”

Erik doesn’t answer, continuing to hold onto Charles while Shaw and his men file into the elevator and exit the bridge. Even after the door has hissed shut and they’re finally alone again they stay like that for a few extra moments, and Charles is almost certain that he’s not the only one who’s trembling.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: choking, attempted non-con, and public executions.

Three days later, Charles finds out exactly how Shaw intends to pay for refueling the Serenity.

He and Erik are up on the bridge, standing side-by-side in companionable silence in front of the navigation table. The Serenity is cutting through a star system today, her path taking her between the orbits of the fifth and sixth planets circling the star. It’s a risky move, out here in the OZs, as you never know who or what could be using a planet or a moon as a base out here and passing too close is all but an open invitation for attack, but Shaw probably doesn’t care about that kind of thing, more interested in taking the shortest possible route to the Gulesson and nothing else.

The elevator doors hiss open with little fanfare, Shaw and his usual detail of inmates stepping out onto the bridge, the men fanning out while Shaw gives them a wide grin and walks over to situate himself in one of the main console chairs.

“Hello, boys,” he greets them, swiveling the chair around so that he’s facing their way, “nice afternoon for flying, isn’t it?”

Without entirely meaning to, Charles has inched sideways so that his shoulder is pressed lightly against Erik’s. It’s been a briefer amount of time since they last saw Shaw, but Charles still feels no more comfortable in his presence than he has since the beginning, adrenaline pumping and all of his nerves on edge. He can never let his guard down, the stress almost enough to make his muscles snap from tension.

Shaw, of course, notices. “What’s the matter, Lieutenant?” he asks pleasantly. He pats his knee invitingly. “Have you been up on your feet for too long? Why don’t you come sit down.”

“Shaw,” Erik growls warningly, wrapping an arm around Charles to draw him in even closer. Charles goes willingly, hating how afraid Shaw makes him feel, even now after all this time, and how much better it makes him feel to have the reassurance of Erik’s protection. He misses his telepathy more than ever—he’d be able to defend himself from Shaw so _easily_ that it burns.

Shaw laughs. “Just offering a little support, no need to get all territorial. You must get weary of taking care of him so much, wouldn’t you like a little relief?”

“Leave it alone,” Erik says through his teeth, practically bristling with anger.

Charles has just begun to wonder with a certain amount of dread what the point of Shaw’s visit to the bridge is going to be when the beeping of one of the sensors at the pilot console pulls him out of Erik’s arms, lifting his head and moving quickly around the navigation table. He strides over to the nearest screenset that Shaw isn’t sitting in front of and quickly pulls up the information being sent in from the Serenity’s outer sensors. A red blip on the screen makes his spine snap straight. “We’ve got company.”

To his surprise, Shaw doesn’t even blink. He only smiles, an eager light in his eyes that puts Charles immediately on his guard. “Right on time,” Shaw murmurs, and the bad feeling in Charles’ chest deepens.

He sticks to protocol. Tapping swiftly at the screen, and just barely remembering to keep his left hand pressed tightly to his chest, Charles directs the Serenity’s sensors to hone in on the foreign ship, trying to put together a visual as well as trace back along its ion trail to get an idea where it came from.

“UFO came from the far side of the fifth planet’s second moon,” Charles reports aloud, half-aware of Erik drifting up to stand beside him again, “I’ll have visual in—there we go.”

The main display flickers, changing from a view of the stars around them to a closeup look at the fast-approaching ship. Charles has never seen a ship that looks less like a ship and more like a scrapped-together junk bucket in his entire life before, with at least three different materials of outer panelling making up her long, flat hull and four huge engine pods at her stern that look like they were picked up from a junk rig and had the rust scraped off. Strapped onto her port and starboard sides, however, are what look like twin pulse cannons that are charged up and ready to fire, wide-open mouths glowing a radioactive purple color. It doesn’t matter that the ship is only about half the size of the Serenity, the Serenity’s defensive shields might be able to withstand a blast from one of the pulse cannons, but not from two.

“Pirates,” Charles says, a different kind of cold fear settling in the pit of his stomach.

The pirate sects that are scattered across various regions of the OZs are as violent as they are unpredictable, widely known for their fierce and merciless strikes on any ship that happens to pass through their territories. The Serenity’s original course had kept them well clear of all the known pirate strongholds, offering them a greater chance of passing through unmolested, but Shaw had upended that as soon as he’d changed their destination to the Gulesson. And if he’s actually responsible for _calling_ the pirates…

“You brought pirates down on us?” Charles asks, tearing his gaze away from the display to stare at Shaw. “Are you _completely_ mad?”

“Slavers, to be precise,” Shaw answers calmly, leaning back in his chair. “Prepare to receive an incoming transmission, Lieutenant.”

Slavers. Charles can only gape at him in horror. Most pirates are deadly in their strikes, slaughtering entire crews of the ships they target in order to pick the ship clean of anything valuable and leaving the bodies to float in the cold emptiness of space, but slavers are notorious for exactly what their name implies: instead of murdering the crews, they capture and enslave them, spiriting them off into the depths of space to be sold on distant planets where slavery is still legal and never to be seen again. The IF has zero tolerance for slavery and it’s outlawed in all of the star systems under the federation, but the OZs are lawless. There’s no way to regulate them. Space is just too big.

The alert for an incoming transmission pops up on the screen, overlaying the visual on the pirate ship. Smiling widely, Shaw gestures for Charles to proceed and numbly Charles can only obey, tapping out the command to open the channel on the wide display in front of them. It takes a moment for the picture to come into clear view, distorting for a few long moments before settling and sharpening, giving them their first look at the pirate on the other end.

“Sebastian,” the man says without inflection, gazing out at Shaw with an unreadable expression. His shoulders are broad, filling up the entire screen, and on his forehead is a large, red diamond that glows in the dim light of his bridge, casting eerie shadows along the contours of his face. “I see you were successful.”

“You had your doubts, didn’t you?” Shaw chides but he’s grinning, pleased. “I promised that I’d see you again one day, old friend.”

“What do you have to offer?” the pirate asks, unmoved.

“Plenty of human chattel,” Shaw replies, eyes glittering. “More than enough to pay for our safe passage and fuel, I should think.”

“We shall see about that.”

“I also have a few IF ranking officers on hand.”

“Oh?” The pirate raises one eyebrow in interest. “I despise the IF.”

“No better way than to take out your frustrations with a bit of target practice,” Shaw says blithely, “I find that it really soothes the soul.”

Before the pirate can respond, Charles reaches out and slams his hand down on the panel of the console, putting the transmission on hold so that the other man can no longer see or hear them. “You can’t do this,” Charles says to Shaw, mind racing even as Erik grabs his arm and drags him away from the console, though in reality it’s probably more to get him out of Shaw’s immediate reach. “You can’t just sell them into slavery or to be _murdered_ for sport—”

“Erik,” Shaw says silkily, swiveling around slowly to look at them both, “why don’t you take your little pet back to his kennel before I snap his pretty little neck.”

“Of course,” Erik says, continuing to drag Charles backwards to the elevator. Charles doesn’t fight him, exactly, but neither does he go willingly, still staring back at Shaw with a mix of anger and fear, adrenaline pumping even as Erik practically throws him into the elevator.

“Bring me back Ramirez, too,” Shaw says, turning back around, “the boys should have gotten enough use out of him by now anyway.” The elevator doors hiss shut and the bridge is gone from view.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Erik demands as they begin to descend. He’s dropped his hold on Charles but his eyes are narrowed. “He’s going to make you pay for that later.”

“What did he mean by human chattel?” Charles demands, fists balled. “I thought you lot killed all the humans onboard.”

“We killed the prison guards and human crew,” Erik answers, and it’s like a shock of cold water to the face: it’s easy enough to lean into Erik’s chest when Erik is protecting him from Shaw, but it’s another emotion entirely that runs through Charles at the reminder that he’s currently locked in a box with a killer. “But we spared the human inmates.”

The human inmates. Of _course_. Charles had completely forgotten that not all the inmates aboard the ship were mutants—hadn’t Briscoe said, what feels like a year ago now, that only a third of the total inmates were mutant? That leaves the rest as human, and Charles feels oddly guilty about the lapse; though it’s not as if he hasn’t had a lot of other things to worry about lately too.

“Shaw has them crammed down on the tenth deck, with a few extra on the ninth,” Erik says as the lift comes to a halt and the doors hiss open to the second deck. “We didn’t know why, they were only—”

“Don’t you _dare_ say that they’re only human,” Charles snaps, backed into the furthest corner away from Erik and glaring at him fiercely, “it doesn’t matter if they’re human or mutant or alien, Shaw still intends to sell them into slavery.”

Erik stands with one foot out in the corridor to keep the elevator doors from closing again, studying Charles intently. “Do you really care so much what happens to them?” he asks, his tone neutral enough to suggest that he’s not trying to start an argument. “They’re convicted criminals that were originally just going to be locked up again, had we stayed on course.”

“Yes, convicted criminals that still have families, release dates, possibility for paroles—you can’t possibly think that there’s nothing wrong about this!”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Erik says stonily, “there’s nothing you or I can do about it short of getting rid of Shaw, and that isn’t going to happen.”

Charles stares at him wordlessly, feeling sick. Erik is right. Shaw is unbeatable, at least from their standpoint with few allies and no means to counteract his unlimited strength, short of slapping an inhibitor collar on him but it would never last: too many other inmates are content with Shaw’s rule. They’d have it back off of him in a second. Even if they did somehow manage to succeed eradicating Shaw and his followers, the pirates are already here. The damage is done.

“Charles.” Erik takes a cautious step towards him, holding his hands up in front of him in the universal gesture of meaning no harm, ready to back off in an instant if Charles gives any indication of flinching away. “It’s every man for himself out here. You know this.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Charles answers bitterly. “And they didn’t even get a chance to try and fend for themselves. They went straight from being Shaw’s prisoners to slaves.”

Erik studies him for a long moment. Charles refuses to feel like he’s being ridiculous or overreacting. No one deserves a life of slavery without any hope of regaining their freedom.

“I can’t stop Shaw from cutting whatever deal he’s making with the pirates,” Erik says at length, the words coming slowly like he’s taking great care with what he’s saying, “but I’m familiar with the leaders of the human inmates. I can give them fair warning so they know what’s coming and have time to organize themselves. With any luck they can take over the pirate ship once we’ve gone our separate ways. That’s not to say it’s certain they’ll succeed, but it gives them a chance.”

“You—you would?” Charles asks warily. There’s no question in his mind that if it comes down to the potential freedom of a few hundred criminals way out in the OZs versus selling those criminals into slavery he’d prefer the former rather than the later, but for Erik to go out of his way to offer…

“If it’s what you want,” Erik says simply, unblinking and honest. He takes another couple of steps closer to Charles, and the elevator doors hiss shut to give them some semblance of privacy. “I can’t give you very much in the way of what you really want, but I can give you this.”

“Why?” Charles asks, but he doesn’t shrink away as Erik inches closer, instead standing up a little straighter. He doesn’t feel afraid of Erik, at least not right now despite his earlier revelations. But he still can’t trust him. “What do you want from me in return?”

“Nothing,” Erik says, coming to a stop directly in front of him, “yet.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what you really want?” Charles asks. He lets out a small sound that could be taken as a nervous laugh. “It already feels like you’ve gotten everything already.” He sighs, shoulders slumping. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“Nothing about any of this is very fair,” Erik answers, mouth twisting, “as we’ve been over before. But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll talk to the humans.”

“Thank you.” Charles doesn’t know what else he can say, the words coming out oddly formal. He has a sinking feeling that he’s racking up quite a debt to Erik, in this twisted system of favors owed and collected on. “Just—please don’t get caught,” Charles adds, looking away, “if Shaw catches you, he’ll—” he breaks off, unable to say it.

He’ll hurt Erik, possibly even kill him. And Charles will be passed on to someone who won’t have any compunctions about raping Charles until he’s raw, if Shaw doesn’t keep him himself. Just the thought of that makes it hard to breathe.

“Shaw’s on the bridge right now,” Erik answers, “he’ll never know I was there.”

“He has eyes everywhere, doesn’t he?” This whole ship belongs to Shaw. Charles feels vaguely threatened even now in the isolation of the elevator; though the security feeds that run throughout the ship are visual only in non-emergency situations, it wouldn’t take much tinkering to add audio. Shaw could be listening to them right now. They could be playing right into the palm of his hand.  

“I’ll be careful,” Erik says, unconcerned.  

It doesn’t make any earthly _sense_ for Erik to risk so much for Charles’ peace of mind, but before Charles can press any further, the elevator doors hiss open and they come face to face with a blond young man dressed in prison gray and a very familiar engineer.

“Darwin!” Charles exclaims, jumping to embrace him. Before they touch, the blond boy slams his arm up across Charles’ chest, effectively knocking him back a step into the lift.

“Who the fuck are you?” the boy snaps.

“Charles,” Darwin says, breaking out into a relieved smile. He puts a placating hand on the blond boy’s arm, and Charles is startled to see the inmate subside. “It’s alright, Alex, this is Charles Xavier. He’s a pilot.”

Alex’s eyes widen. “The pilot.”

“The pilot,” Erik agrees as he puts a hand on Charles’ back and guides him off the lift. Alex’s eyes widen further at the sight of him, though he doesn’t seem afraid of Erik like most of the rest of the inmates are. He just seems surprised to see him.

Alex looks Charles up and down. “So this is your guy, Erik. I gotta be honest, he doesn’t look like much. I think you played him up a little.”

“He may look scrawny but I guarantee you he’s been keeping us safely on course all this way,” Darwin says. He looks…good. Not underfed, not thirsty, not outwardly wounded. And his eyes have light in them, so unlike the hollow gazes of the few crewmembers Charles has seen since their captivity began. So unlike the hollow gaze he’s seen on himself when he looks in the mirror.

When a group of inmates round the corner down the hall, laughing uproariously, Erik lays his hand on the small of Charles’ back again and pushes him toward their quarters. “Come on,” he says to Alex and Darwin, “we’re this way.” The four of them slip past the group of prisoners unmolested, in part because the combined forces of Alex and Erik’s glares seem capable of searing the walls. Erik does grab one of them, stopping the man in his tracks, and orders him to fetch Ramirez up to the bridge and deliver the other pilot to Shaw. He’s obeyed without question.

Once they reach their room, Erik wrenches open the door, ushers them inside, and seals it up behind them again. “We can talk safely here.”

“Talk?” Charles echoes, wondering if Erik brought Darwin back here just so Charles would have some company. That odd kindness combined with Erik’s offer in the lift would have had Charles seriously confused about what the hell was going on, but it’s clear soon enough why Erik invited them into their quarters: he and Alex sequester themselves by the holoscreen and begin a discussion in low undertones, clearly familiar with each other. They ignore Charles and Darwin completely, which Darwin apparently takes as a cue to settle on the opposite side of the room and make himself comfortable.

“Are you alright?” Charles asks, sitting down by the wall next to Darwin. It’s so strange to see him after spending weeks with only Erik.

The engineer laughs, though his eyes are sad as they trace over Charles. “I think I should be asking you that. I’ve heard about Shaw.” Picking at his thumbnail, Darwin adds more lowly, “How he’s taken a special interest in you.”

Drawing his knees up to his chest, Charles sighs. His breath comes out a little shuddery and he hopes Darwin doesn’t hear it. “Does _everyone_ on the ship know?”

“Word travels. It pays to know what Shaw’s keeping his eye on and what he’s ignoring. It’s much easier to avoid him when you know what he’s paying attention to.”

“And you’ve been avoiding him so far?” Charles asks. He slides a gaze over to Alex, who’s leaning over the console as Erik gestures at the holoscreen. “Are you okay? With him?”

His attempt at discreetly fishing for information doesn’t go over Darwin’s head. With a soft laugh, Darwin answers, “I got lucky, I guess. Alex and I, we have an understanding. He isn’t interested in…using me like that. He’s not a brute.” His mouth thins as he looks at Charles. “Not like some.”

Puzzled at the sudden darkness to his voice, Charles glances back at him and finds Darwin staring at his neck. More specifically, at the line of bruises Erik’s mouth left there last time.

Self-conscious, Charles tugs his collar up higher and says uncomfortably, “Erik’s not like that either. It’s complicated.”

“So Alex says,” Darwin concedes. “But I don’t trust him.”

“I wouldn’t trust any of the inmates either,” Charles admits truthfully. No matter what Erik’s done for him, he’s got to keep in mind Erik has ulterior motives in keeping him alive. It’s all part of some big strategy he’s not privy to, and once he’s fulfilled his role, once they’re free of Shaw’s game, he’ll be disposable to Erik. A piece to be swept off the board.

To his surprise, Darwin says, “No, I trust Alex. He’s a good guy. But I don’t trust Erik. There’s something about him that doesn’t feel…I don’t know. Safe.”

Charles refrains from pointing out that the only times he’s felt safe since the prison break is in Erik’s presence. He doesn’t want to put that sort of dependence to words. Instead, he just shrugs and turns his attention back across the room, watching as Alex taps a section of the blueprints on the screen to blow it up larger.

“What are they even looking at?” Charles wonders aloud in a low voice, not really expecting an answer. He thought it was just a weird quirk on Erik’s part, and that maybe because of his mutation Erik is interested in mechanics and decided that learning all the specs of the Serenity was a good way to pass the hours stuck onboard, but now it seems Alex is in on it too.

“Man, I’m not used to having to squint,” Darwin remarks as he peers across the room. Charles glances sideways at Darwin’s inhibitor collar for a moment, and debates on telling him about how to block the needle, but quickly discards the idea. It’s too risky, especially while right under Erik and Alex’s noses. They could tune back in to whatever Charles and Darwin are saying at any time. “Oh, right, I should’ve guessed. That’s the Serenity’s engine.”

“Why the obsession?”

Darwin shrugs. “I don’t know. When I’m not covering my shift in the engine room, Alex has me helping him build a dual-core engine in one of the e-pods down there, though. Erik’s even supplied some of the parts we need, too, and does the more complicated welding that Alex can’t. I think they just like tinkering, it has a very secret-pet-project feel.”

“What can Alex do?” Charles asks in vague interest. He’s far more focused on staring at the back of Erik’s head, wishing more than ever that he had his telepathy back so he could determine what possible use he could be to a metallokinetic who likes to build engines in his spare time when he’s not fucking Charles. Or playing chess, Charles amends.

“He can emit plasma energy blasts from his torso,” Darwin answers, and grins when Charles blinks, snapping out of thought abruptly at this bit of information. “Pretty wild, huh? Apparently he’s got a kid brother back home who can do it from his eyes. Has to wear special glasses to keep from frying everything he looks at.”

“Alex has told you about his past?” Charles asks, trying and failing not to feel irrationally...jealous? Is that really what he’s feeling?

“Sure,” Darwin answers with another shrug, “it’s boring down there on the engineering decks sometimes, so we talk a lot.” His eyes flicker to the bruises at Charles’ throat again. “Erik not much of a talker?”

“Not really,” Charles mumbles, even though it’s not what Darwin thinks. Erik _isn’t_ a talker, but it’s not because he’s always too busy fucking Charles into the mattress. Erik just...doesn’t talk. At least not about himself, though not for lack of Charles trying to wheedle information out of him during their chess games.

“I’ve met Logan and Anna Marie, too,” Darwin says after a couple moments of silence. Erik and Alex are muttering heatedly back and forth about a part on the holoscreen that Charles thinks looks like the o-ring of an oxygen tank. “They’re in on the little project too, I guess. Must be like a prison inmate kind of thing, figuring out activities to do together to pass time. But Anna Marie told me they fixed your hand.”

“Yeah,” Charles says, holding out his left hand for Darwin to see, flexing it once or twice. “I keep it wrapped up so Shaw doesn’t realize it’s fully healed and break it again.” It’s amazing, he thinks distantly, how calm he can sound while saying that.

“Good idea,” Darwin agrees. He pauses again, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck, just above where his inhibitor collar rests. “It’s too bad we never got to finish that mini volleyball tournament we had set up. I know we would’ve won.”

Despite himself, despite their awful situation, Charles snorts. Something tight and guarded in his chest unclenches slightly, some of his tension easing. “Champions for sure.”

“Just find it,” Erik says irritably, his voice rising in volume enough to cause both Charles and Darwin to look back across the room at their...keepers. Erik pushes away from the desk, flicking off the holoscreen with his powers.

“Alright, fine,” Alex says, annoyed, but he doesn’t argue. “We’re already ahead of what we planned for, so relax a little.” He turns his head, finding where Charles and Darwin are sitting together. “Come on, Darwin. We’ve got a whole new list of shit to get done now.”

“Sounds good to me,” Darwin answers easily, climbing back up to his feet and stretching.

Charles scrambles to follow, bracing one hand against the wall to push himself up. “It was good to see you, Darwin,” he says truthfully while Alex and Erik have one more quiet aside between themselves, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“You too, man,” Darwin says, clasping Charles’ offered hand and giving it a firm shake. “Hang in there, you hear? I’m sorry you’ve got a...rougher deal, in all this.”

“Not as bad as some,” Charles answers, thinking of other members of the crew who don’t have someone like Alex or Erik to protect them from being passed around like toys. “But I will. I am.”

“Good,” Darwin says seriously, and with one last nod he turns away and follows Alex out the door after Erik unseals it, both of them disappearing out into the hallway beyond. Charles is sad to see them go. It’d felt good talking to someone other than Erik or Shaw.

“I’d better go visit the tenth deck now,” Erik says into the temporary silence that had descended as soon as the door had slid shut again. “You stay here.”

“Alright,” Charles says. It seems foolish to say, but: “Be careful.”

Erik’s mouth actually twitches in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “I will. It won’t take long. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Alright,” Charles repeats, unsure what else to say, but Erik spares him the trouble and leaves, slipping out the door and resealing it behind himself.

Charles lets out a long sigh, going over to sink down wearily on the edge of the bed. He wonders what they’ll do for the rest of the night since his shift on the bridge has been cut so short. After weeks and weeks of following the exact same schedule, he feels rather at loose ends with the anomaly.

Plenty of extra time to fuck, he muses, and once they get that out of the way maybe they can work more on Erik’s 3D chess game. He’s nearly good enough to beat Charles now, starting to learn the finer strategies and put them to use. Or Erik can stare at his blueprints some more for his and Alex’s project while Charles gets some extra sleep. A regular wild night of being trapped in close quarters, he thinks dryly.

He ends up lying back across the bed, legs still dangling off the edge, and falls into a light doze. All the stress from their run-in with Shaw on the bridge and the arrival of the pirates has caught up with him and he feels exhausted. Beneath that is the dangerous kind of lethargy that stems from being trapped in captivity—it’d be so easy, he thinks as he lets his mind drift in the odd space somewhere between sleeping and waking, to just sleep away the days as a means of escape.

A sharp crack jolts Charles back into full awareness, and he jerks upright into a sitting position just in time to see the cloud of black smoke in the center of the room dissipating around Azazel. The red-skinned mutant’s long tail flips back and forth consideringly as his gaze sweeps around the room, coming to settle on Charles with a wide grin.

“Where’s Erik?” Azazel asks, taking a step towards the bed slowly. “Why’s he left you all alone, little mouse?”

Charles resists the urge to back away, instead remaining frozen where he’s perched on the edge of the bed. They didn’t count on this, he thinks blankly, heartbeat pounding painfully loud in his chest, they didn’t count on Azazel being able to bypass Erik’s safeguard of welding the door shut as easily as Raven’s friend Kitty can phase through solid walls.

It doesn’t even matter if Charles somehow makes it over to the bathroom fast enough to lock himself inside. Azazel can just teleport himself straight inside there too.

“No answer?” Azazel tilts his head. “Surely the rumor about Erik ripping out your tongue isn’t true. How else would you lick his cock and service him?”

“I don’t know where he went.” Charles’ voice comes out stilted but steady.

“A pity,” Azazel says with a sly grin, creeping ever closer, “I was hoping to speak with him.”

“Come back later.” Charles feels very much at a disadvantage where he sits on the bed, but he has the distinct impression that as soon as he moves, even to stand up, Azazel will take it as an invitation to lunge.

“No, no,” Azazel says, “I don’t mind waiting. He shouldn’t be gone too long, no? Not if he’s left you here. I wouldn’t want you to be lonely.” He’s close enough now that his tail is able to reach forward, and Charles sucks in a breath as its sharp, pointed tip ghosts up his stomach and chest, just barely brushing the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t touch me,” Charles says through gritted teeth, suddenly terribly angry at how helpless he is. He hates it so much it makes him feel sick, that he’s been put in this situation—not just by Erik, but by fate in general, a cruel twist in a series of events beyond his control. As a telepath, there’s nothing he can’t stand more than not being in control. “Don’t fucking touch me.” And then he adds, because it’s probably true, “Erik will rip your spine out.”

“He’ll have to catch me first, little mouse,” Azazel chuckles, closing in on the last of the scant distance left between them so that he stands towering over Charles. He starts to lean down, greedy eyes appraising Charles hungrily. “You _are_ a pretty one, little—”

Charles cocks back his right arm and punches him square in the face, granting himself a split-second’s amount of time to feel viciously pleased as Azazel reels backwards with a curse, but then a moment later Azazel’s tail lashes out and coils tightly around Charles’ throat just above his collar and squeezes, cutting off his air in an instant.

Charles chokes, thrashing, both hands flying up to claw desperately at the whipcord-thin coils around his neck like a noose, kicking at Azazel when he feels himself being lifted off his feet. Azazel uses his tail to slam Charles backwards down onto the bed, not letting up on the pressure as he pins Charles down in place, climbing over him to straddle his hips so Charles can’t kick at him anymore.

Charles keeps struggling, fueled by mindless panic but growing weaker as he’s still denied air, black spots dancing across his vision. When he feels long-nailed fingers picking at the drawstrings of his pants Charles realizes with cold dread that Azazel intends to choke him until he’s unconscious, and then he’ll be free to rape Charles however he wants.

That renews his attempts to pull Azazel’s tail off, giving him a small boost of strength that doesn’t last long; Azazel’s grip on him is too tight and merciless, and the world above is starting to fade away. At least he’ll be asleep, Charles thinks dimly, starting to go limp as his pants are slowly pulled down, at least he won’t have to feel it until he’s awake, because Azazel is sure to make him bleed.

If Azazel even allows Charles to wake up. Maybe he’ll just kill him, and it will all be over.

The door to the room unseals itself and opens, and Charles isn’t lucid enough to fully realize what happens next—all he knows is that abruptly the choking pressure around his neck is gone and then Azazel is yanked backwards off of Charles completely, and he’s able to draw in a ragged, _wonderful_ breath of air.

There’s a loud crash somewhere far away but all Charles can do is lie on the bed, coughing so hard he thinks his lungs might fall out, and when those give way he’s left panting, gasping for breath and he’d never thought that recycled ship oxygen would taste so good.

The corners of his eyes are damp but Charles doesn’t care, letting the tears leak down sideways across his temples as he catches his breath, throat sore and chest heaving. Weakly, he fumbles with the elastic band of his pants, struggling to pull them back up when he becomes aware of how quiet it’s gotten in the room. Azazel must have teleported himself out.

“Charles?” It’s Erik’s voice, loud in the silence, and he sounds like he’s furious and concerned all at once. “Are you alright?”

Charles breathes for a few more seconds before wearily pushing himself upright to nod. “I’m fine,” he croaks, lifting an arm to wipe his face with his sleeve. He’s not even shaking, he notes with an icy sort of calmness that settles over him like a layer of falling snow, that will set in later once the shock has worn off.

Erik lets out a breath, some of the stiffness in his shoulders fading. He’s standing in the center of the room next to the table that now lies on its side, four chairs flung in all directions across the floor; he must have thrown them at Azazel to get him off of Charles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d come in here.”

“He was looking for you,” Charles offers, and then ends up coughing again when the words scratch against his throat, making his voice hoarse.

Lips pressed into a thin line, Erik crosses the room and steps into the bathroom for a moment. Charles hears the sink tap run and then Erik reappears with a glass of water in hand, offering it out to Charles. Charles accepts it gratefully, tipping it back to pull in long, deep draughts.

“Easy,” Erik cautions when Charles has to pause and cough again. “And I know he was looking for me. I actually ran into Shaw in the hallway just now. He said he sent Azazel to find me.”

“He doesn’t already know you went to see the human inmates, does he?” Charles asks in dismay.

Erik shakes his head. “No, that went smoothly enough. Shaw wanted to tell me that he’s invited the pirates—Essex, and some of his crew—onboard to take a look at the humans and also put on a little display. He wants us there for that.”

“Display?” Charles asks uneasily.

“I don’t know what he means by that,” Erik admits, “all I know is that it has something to do with the officers in the crew. He hinted at that much.”

“He’s going to execute them,” Charles realizes instantly, dizzy with fear and dread, “it’ll be a big show for the pirates and everyone to see. He’s going to _kill_ them.”

“We won’t know until we go,” Erik says grimly, “and we don’t have a choice in that.”

“I’m not going to watch an execution.”

“I just said, we don’t have a choice in it.”

“I know but I…” His fingers clench hard around the glass, knuckles whitening. “Those officers, they’re my coworkers, Erik. They aren’t friends, but I still couldn’t...I know there’s nothing I can do to stop Shaw from killing them. But I won’t watch. I won’t give Shaw that satisfaction.”

Erik studies him for a long moment with one of those piercing gazes of his that seems to pass right through all of Charles’ defenses. It’s a look that he used to think was reserved for telepaths who really _could_ look past all your defenses, and it’s a look that used to annoy Raven to no end, but Erik pulls it off as well as any non-psionic could. Charles wants to cloak his mind and hide his thoughts, though logically he knows Erik can only guess at them.

Finally, Erik takes the glass from Charles’ hands and sets it on the floor. “Let me look at your throat,” he says, pushing Charles back by his shoulder so that he’s lying down. Erik gets on the bed next to him and tilts Charles’ head up so that his neck is exposed. Charles tries not to move as Erik’s fingers trail lightly across down his jaw to his throat, across his Adam’s apple and down to his collarbone.

“At least Shaw will like it,” Charles jokes weakly. “Is it a pretty bruise?”

“No,” Erik says. “It’s disgusting.”

His voice is quiet but every word is steel. Azazel had better watch his back, Charles thinks, because Erik is clearly irate with him. A good part of him hopes Erik gets his hands on Azazel and gives the man a taste of his own medicine.

Erik’s finger slips underneath the collar, pulling very lightly. “It’s not too tight?”

“Not really.” He hesitates, and then adds, “Though I’d prefer it if it came off entirely.”

Erik releases him and strokes his thumb along the bruise around Charles’ neck again, as if trying to erase it with his touch. “Not yet.”

 _That_ sends an electric jolt down Charles’ spine. ‘“Yet?”’

“Need to know, Lieutenant,” Erik replies, “and you don’t need to know.”

“Yet,” Charles says, almost teasing.

Amusement flickers through Erik’s eyes, though none of it shows on his face. Charles is getting better at reading the subtle emotion that Erik never seems to express fully. He can tell when Erik wants to smile.

“Get some rest,” Erik says, getting up. “There’s no telling how much sleep you’ll get once Essex is aboard.”

The mere mention of the pirates is enough to shatter any good humor burgeoning between them. Charles scoots back on the bed so he can rest his back against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest in a mirror of how he’d sat with Darwin, only this time his body starts to shiver, tension shaking out of him. Charles doesn’t fight it, closing his eyes. God, if Erik had only been a minute later…

But he wasn’t, Charles tells himself, opening them again to stare blankly at the far wall with glassy eyes while he trembles. Erik was just in time. And if Azazel tries to come back, it’ll be _his_ neck that gets wrapped up—in steel.

“Here.” Erik’s gone to refill the glass with water, and Charles uncurls himself slightly to accept it, taking another deep, long drink. Erik hovers by the edge of the bed, staring fixedly at the bedside platform. There’s no doubt he’s noticed that Charles is shaking, but he doesn’t comment on it. “Chess while we wait?”

Charles finds himself nodding. “Why not.”

“I’ll bring it over,” Erik says quickly when Charles starts to move, so Charles resettles while Erik grabs the board off the table and carries it back over to the bed. “2D or 3D? Up to you.”

“Just 2D is fine,” Charles says after a beat.

Erik sets the board down in the middle of the bed, its hologram surface flickering on with the pieces already set. He climbs up onto the opposite side of the bed, sitting with his back against the wall like Charles so that they sit side-by-side with a couple feet of space between them, the chessboard on the bed in front of them. Erik flicks the edge of the hologram so that it spins around to where the white pieces are closer to Charles.

“Your move.”

Charles reaches forward to slide a pawn up two squares, and they descend into a companionable silence as they trade off taking turns, pieces advancing here and there across the board. Charles finds it soothing to lose himself in the motions of the game and not think about anything else besides old, familiar strategies and where he wants his pieces on the board to go. He sips down the rest of his water slowly, directing his white soldiers forward to capture Erik’s pieces, while gradually his shaking subsides, the ache in his throat losing some of its prominence.

He’s just cornered Erik’s queen, ready to capture her in one turn, when someone knocks lightly on the door. Even Erik falls still, hand poised above the board to make his move, and they exchange glances in the expectant silence, coming to the same conclusion separately: just a messenger, since they bothered with a knock, but one that is going to report everything they see back to Shaw.

“In my lap,” Erik breathes, barely above a whisper, and in one motion he flicks off the chessboard and slides it over underneath the pillow. He spreads his legs a little wider and Charles crawls over to sit down between them, sideways in Erik’s lap, one of Erik’s arms looping around his back for support. Charles squirms a little, fitting them both together a little better and leans sideways into Erik’s chest as if Erik is pinning him in place there rather than just gripping him loosely. Erik’s other hand comes to rest at the bottom of Charles’ shirt and after Charles gives a brief nod in permission he slides his fingers up underneath the fabric, resting his hand flat against Charles’ bare skin just as another knock comes on the door. Charles turns his head towards the wall, resting his chin on Erik’s shoulder as he hears the soft crunch of metal of the door being opened and Erik says coldly, “What do you want?”

A few shuffling footsteps signals the messenger’s entrance to the room, and Charles can only imagine the picture they make, trapped and kept as he is on Erik’s lap while Erik no doubt glares at the intruder, seemingly annoyed about being interrupted. “Shaw wants everyone down in the gym,” says a voice Charles doesn’t recognize, “and you’re supposed to bring him, too.”

“Why,” Erik says, tone indicating he thinks the other inmate is touched in the head, “I prefer keeping him locked up here.”

“Shaw wants the prisoners all there,” the inmate insists, “it’s on your own head if you don’t listen.”

“Not if I tell him you didn’t relay the message properly,” Erik says, but Charles sees him shake his head out of the corner of his eye when the inmate starts to protest. “We’ll be there. Now get out.”

Once the door hisses shut again, Charles climbs out of Erik’s lap and sits down heavily beside him. “I don’t want to see this.”

For a second, he thinks Erik might reach out to…to what? Comfort him? Try to relax him? Caution him? Whatever the reason, Erik’s fingers twitch but they remain in his lap. After a moment, Erik says, “Stay close to me,” and gets up.

Charles swallows back the automatic response that forms on the tip of his tongue: _Don’t I always?_

Dread sits cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach as he and Erik pull on their boots and leave their quarters behind, making their way back down the hallway to enter the elevators. Charles stands next to Erik with his eyes closed as they descend, exhausted all over again. It’s like he’s on a planet with five times the amount of gravity he’s used to, the entire world weighing down on his shoulders with the intent to crush.

He doesn’t even realize that his breaths are coming quicker than normal, nausea and the beginnings of panic churning within him, until Erik hits the emergency stop on the elevator’s panel and they come to a halt between decks.

“Charles.” Erik cups his cheek, his thumb stroking the skin just beneath Charles’ eye softly. “I know this won’t comfort you, but better to be executed than to live and be tortured.”

“Please don’t make me watch this,” Charles whispers, wrapping his fingers around the wrist belonging to Erik’s hand on his cheek. Erik’s bones feel brittle in his grip but when he squeezes them, digging the tips of his fingers into the flesh of Erik’s arm to hold on, they remain strong and unbending.

Erik holds his gaze for a long moment, thumb still swiping gently at Charles’ skin until Charles’ breathing levels out, no longer in danger of hyperventilating. Without looking away Erik trips the lift cables and they begin to descend again, but still they hold onto one another—a bare minimum amount of contact, but to Charles it feels like nothing less than an anchor.

“You won’t have to watch,” Erik says as the elevator comes to a stop on the fourth deck, and by the time the doors hiss open to let in the sounds of a gathering crowd, they’ve pulled away from each other.

Heart still beating painfully in his chest, Charles sticks close to Erik as they follow the general flow of people into the gym. Not much has changed since the last time Charles was here; most of the equipment is pushed up against the walls, and the makeshift platform still stands at the front and center of the large space left over. Unlike last time, Charles isn’t herded into the center of the room with his fellow crewmembers, and instead allows Erik to take him by the forearm and lead him through the crowd, Erik’s cold stare serving to clear the way. Charles tries to keep his eyes down, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, eagerly anticipatory inmates or exhausted, frightened crewmembers alike.

He’s suddenly hyperaware of how the last time they were all in this room, his colleagues watched him get passed off to Erik. Now they’re all seeing him again for the first time for the first time in weeks and what he looks like—bruised and battered, being led by the arm with his eyes downcast—can’t be very good for morale. Most of them have probably been through worse horrors than he has, Charles thinks dully as they reach the back wall of the gym, because at least he’s only been fucked by one person.

How _wrong_ this all is suddenly seizes him again, and Erik has to catch him by the elbow when Charles lurches to the side. “I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Charles babbles, his shortness of breath making his head spin and he wishes he could just sit down, or lie down, and close his eyes for a year to make this all go away, “I just—I just can’t—god, Erik, this is _wrong_ —”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Erik murmurs, taking him gently by the shoulders and guiding him backwards until Charles is back against the wall. Erik steps up close, pressing their fronts together so that he boxes Charles in, safe and contained with the solid wall behind him and Erik’s warmth in front of him, two immovable forces that will keep him from flying apart. When Erik speaks again Charles can feel the words vibrate up from the depths of his chest, reverberating through both of them. “You just still have a soul.”

Charles shudders, arms folded up between them so that his hands rest flat against Erik’s chest, leaving him the option of pushing Erik away if he wanted to. He doesn’t. Instead he lets Erik steady him while the room continues to fill, even more inmates crowding in than there were on the day Shaw sorted through the mutant crewmembers. Everyone is facing towards the front of the room towards the empty stage as they wait for Shaw to arrive and start the show, so Charles and Erik are free from scrutiny where they stand at the back. Charles looks over Erik’s shoulder, somewhat calmer now: Erik’s presence isn’t overwhelming, it’s just...enough.

“We need to get off this ship,” Charles mutters, and Erik makes a quiet considering sound that Charles chooses to take as a sign of agreement.

The murmuring of the crowd drops off when Shaw and Essex enter the gym, flanked by Azazel, a couple more of Shaw’s hand-picked followers, and a small contingent of pirates, their shabby coats and hulking phasers making them stick out from all the inmates dressed in grey like a sore thumb. Essex’s face is just as impassive as it was in the transmission on the bridge, his gaze sweeping once across the crowd to gauge their numbers before dismissing them all entirely.

Shaw, on the other hand, wears one of his indulgent smirks that doesn’t reach his cold, glittering eyes. Charles averts his gaze even though there’s no way for Shaw to single him out through the crowd, not looking back until the group has climbed up on top of the stage.

“Allow me to introduce Captain Essex, for those of you who haven’t heard of him,” Shaw begins, the ringmaster of a circus of nightmares. “He and his crew will be escorting us the rest of the way to the Gulesson to ensure we arrive safely, and secure us dockage as well as fuel. We don’t want our appropriated IF ship being shot down mistakenly on our way in, after all.”

A ripple of laughter rolls through the crowd.

“I’m pleased to report that our payment of fresh human slaves—our former inmate brethren—will be more than enough for our purposes,” Shaw continues with a wide smile, “but as a gesture of goodwill and a token of our gratitude, I think a little display in in order.” Azazel abruptly disappears with a sharp crack. “And it won’t hurt for our IF mutant friends to be given a little reminder about just how far from home we all are.”

Azazel reappears, and the crowd breaks out in a loud, cheering roar when they see that he’s not alone. Five of the human officers of the Serenity crew are down on their knees at the forefront of the stage in front of the crowd, each with their own inmate guard who drop their linked hands and step back—contact, it seems, is necessary for Azazel to be able to transport groups of people. Four of the officers are from engineering, so Charles doesn’t know them very well, but the fifth man is Kirseth, the First Officer of the ship, and the man whose quarters Erik has taken over, the man whose bed Erik fucks him in every night.

The gathered inmates have all gone wild, stomping their feet and chanting just like they’d done at the mutant crewmembers on that first terrible morning, the gym echoing as all the sounds bounce off one another until all Charles can make sense of is a deafening, continuous roar. Shaw lets it go on for a few extended moments, gesturing at the human officers every so often to get the crowd to increase the volume to near fever-pitch levels of mindless bloodlust.

The officers all are half-starved and disorientated, staring out into the sea of inmates with bleary shock and confusion. It’s easy to pick out where each of the crewmembers in the audience stand: they are pockets of stillness while all around them the inmates pump their fists into the air in triumph, frozen in horror and fear.

“Look at me,” Erik commands quietly when Charles lets out a small, strangled sound, feeling like he’s going to hurl. “Look at me, Charles.”

Charles breathes out shakily and doesn’t fight Erik’s grip when Erik lifts a hand to tilt Charles’ face up by his chin so he has to look up at Erik instead of over his shoulder at the spectacle Shaw is putting on. Erik’s eyes are steady and calm, but nothing can block out Shaw’s voice.

“These _humans_ ,” Shaw sneers, drawing boos from all corners of the room, “were the esteemed officers of the crew responsible for escorting us to our new prison home. Fortunately I put a stop to that business—” he’s interrupted for a few moments by more raucous cheering, “—and now I gift them to Captain Essex to do with as he pleases.”

“The Intergalactic Federation is a blight on our galaxy,” Essex speaks, his voice invoking a creeping malice that covers the room like an invisible mist, and Charles is dimly aware that he’s clenched his hands into fists in the front of Erik’s shirt, holding on tightly. “They seek to regulate and control, unwanted meddlers who stick their noses where they do not belong. I look forward to the day where all IF ships are burned out of the skies and swallowed by black holes, blasted into atoms by the plasma cannons of the free people of the galaxy.”

The roar that follows is louder than all the previous cheers before, the chanting picking back up again with the horrible rhythmic stomping, and Charles risks a glance past Erik’s face in time to see Essex being handed a large phaser rifle by one of his men.

“Close your eyes, Charles,” Erik says, and distantly Charles wonders how he knows but then realizes he must be able to follow the movement of the guns on the stage while Essex and four of his men line up behind each of the kneeling officers, pressing the barrels of their phasers to the backs of their heads. It’s not hard to guess what’s about to happen now either, with the way the chanting has molded back into a wordless roar, an angry mob thirsty for blood and hungry for the sight of carnage.

Essex lifts one hand and the noise quiets a little, though asking for pure silence at this point is impossible. “These humans will pay the price,” he says, and Charles slams his eyes shut just as all five phasers go off in unison, followed by a roar of the crowd that shakes the ceiling.

Someone else is screaming, a high-pitched wail that somehow carries above the cheers of the inmates, but all Charles can focus on is the hideous smell of burned, charred flesh and he still hasn’t opened his eyes but he can imagine the scene in awful detail: five corpses, heads melted completely away by close-range phaser fire—

He fights his way out of Erik’s hold so he can lean over and retch, nothing coming up from his empty stomach but his muscles still spasming painfully as he dry heaves, coughing and choking on the stench that’s permeated throughout the entire room now. One of Erik’s hands, broad and warm, comes to rest on the curve of his back, but if he’s saying anything it’s lost beneath the overwhelming noise.

A moment later Charles feels two hands slip beneath his arms, pulling him gently back up into an upright position and then Erik is herding him along the edge of the wall, keeping his body between Charles and the crowd that’s now a barely-contained riot, skirting the edge of the room and guiding him towards the door. Numbly, Charles lets himself be steered, his mind utterly blank. There are five dead people on the stage and all this crowd wants is _more_.

They’re almost to the doorway that will lead them out into the hallway, Erik snarling at someone who bumps into him and jostles them both, when Charles’ gaze is drawn like a magnet back up to the stage. Shaw stares directly back, a knowing smile curling across his face, and Charles tears his gaze away with what might be a pained sob, nearly tripping over Erik’s feet in his haste to get to the door and get out of the room before he really starts to choke.

They burst out into the hallway together, Erik wrenching the door shut behind them with his power to muffle the sound a little, and Charles keeps going until he runs into the wall directly opposite of the door, staggering over and leaning against it while he pants.

His head is spinning. Thank god he has the collar on, he thinks faintly. He doesn’t think he could have handled feeling their deaths echo in his mind.

Erik’s hand is on his back again, firm and grounding. Charles wants to tell him to let him go, to stop being so gentle with him—they’re in public and any one of Shaw’s cronies could be lurking around, watching their every move. But he can’t bring himself to push Erik away. He’s not sure when Erik became his greatest comfort in this hellhole, but with Erik touching him, he feels a little less like a wreck that’s being pulled apart piece by piece.

Slowly, his breathing calms. Closing his eyes, he rests his head against the wall and says thickly, “I knew most of the crew was dead. I knew that. But seeing it happen…like that…”

He doesn’t finish but Erik says, “I know.” When he fits his hand into the curve of Charles’ elbow and pulls him up straight, Charles follows without any resistance.

“You need to get some rest,” Erik says as they walk back toward the lift. “Sleep when we get back. I’ll wake you when it’s your shift.”

Charles nods, so bone-tired that it’s difficult for him to keep his head up. Sleep sounds good right now. In fact, it sounds like the best thing he’s ever heard of; at least when he’s unconscious, he doesn’t have to face Shaw, the murders of his crewmates and friends, the constant threat of torture and death. It’s a blessed escape, one of the very few left to him now.

Erik waves a hand to cast the lift doors open a few steps ahead of them, but before they reach it, a loud _crack_ signals Azazel’s arrival. Charles flinches back automatically, the memory of Azazel’s tail wrapped around his neck vivid and visceral in his mind. When the smoke dissipates, there’s a veritable crowd standing in front of them, hands linked.

“Well, well,” Shaw purrs, dropping Azazel’s hand. “Leaving so soon?”

Erik shoves Charles back a step so that he’s just behind Erik’s shoulder. “We watched your little show. What more do you want?”

“We were so sorry to see you go,” Shaw answers with a smirk for Charles. “I do hope the lieutenant is feeling well. Good lessons, I find, are always hard to swallow.”

“Fuck you,” Charles grits out from behind Erik, quivering with pent-up emotions. He knows his face must be bloodless and pale, gaunt with stress and exhaustion, but it doesn’t stop Charles from glaring at Shaw with a hatred he’d never known himself capable of before.

“Unfortunately Erik won’t let you do that,” Shaw says with a soft laugh, eyes glinting. The cluster of inmates and some of the pirates he’s brought with him all laugh too, leering at Charles. “But speaking of swallowing, Erik, I have a small request.”

“This is an IF pilot?” Essex asks from where he stands beside Shaw. Up close and in person, the pirate captain is massive, his broad shoulders and hulking torso making Shaw look like a twig in comparison. He sizes Charles up with his cold, calculating gaze. “He is a mutant and you have collared him.”

“The only crewmembers we left alive are all mutants,” Shaw answers casually, “and the collars are to ensure their good behavior.”

“I see.”

“We allowed them to live in honor of their mutant genes,” Shaw continues, “but there is the unfortunate matter of their employment under the IF that we cannot allow to go unaddressed.”

“Cowardly dogs who chose to submit,” Essex observes with a sneer.

“And so we keep them collared,” Shaw acknowledges heavily, like it’s a burden he’s been forced to bear, “because the only fix to a cowardly dog is to beat the cowardliness out of it. It’s like one of the IF reform programs turned on its head—even you can appreciate the irony of that. It is my greatest hope that one day our brothers and sisters who used to be part of the IF crew will be able to join us, but in the meantime they must be kept subdued.”

“This one does not seem subdued,” Essex says, studying Charles’ face. Charles can practically see Erik’s hackles rise. “This one reeks of insolence.”

“This one is a work in progress,” Shaw says with a grin, “and I’ve had my friend Erik here working on him. Isn’t that right, Erik?”

“You gave him to me to use,” Erik says flatly, “and none of my progress with him has been for you.”

“A pleasure slave,” Essex remarks, looking at Charles in new light. Charles would take a step backwards but they’ve been surrounded in the corridor and he doesn’t want to get too far from Erik. “I see now. This one would fetch a high price based on his face alone.”

“He isn’t for sale,” Erik says coldly, reaching back to wrap a hand around Charles’ wrist tightly.

“Pity.” Essex doesn’t seem particularly upset, which Charles counts as a good thing. He doesn’t want to think about what would happen if Essex was truly determined; he has a feeling that whatever claim Shaw has allowed Erik to have on him would cease to matter if Essex started bidding high.

Charles isn’t able to contain his shudder, and Erik gives his wrist a small squeeze.

“About that favor, though, Erik,” Shaw says, eyes dancing, “there’s nothing wrong with a demonstration.”

“I’ve told you before,” Erik says flatly, “you aren’t getting a show.”

“Erik, please, not in front of the guests,” Shaw says, not even bothering to hide his amusement, “it won’t do to be inhospitable. Put the lieutenant down on his knees and let him show us how well he can suck a cock.”

Charles feels cold sweat break out across his body, muscles seizing up in horror as the group of inmates around them laugh again eagerly. Essex watches him expectantly, folding his arms across his chest with his gaze zeroed in on Charles’ mouth, and there’s a strange high-pitched sound ringing in his ears, blotting out whatever catcalls the inmates are saying, frozen completely and mind utterly blank with panic.

Erik has snarled something at Shaw that Charles completely misses, his awareness only cutting back in just in time to hear Shaw’s taunting response. “If you’re really so shy, Erik, I’m sure I can find a volunteer around here somewhere.”

The inmates and pirates all make a show of raising their hands wildly, like this is a classroom and Shaw is their teacher. A couple of them that are closest to Charles actually reach out towards him to bat at him, tugging at his clothes until he shrinks away from them and presses up against Erik’s back, which only makes Shaw’s smile widen.

“Weren’t you just telling me how he’s a little cockslut?” Shaw asks mildly, raising his eyebrows. “Back on the bridge? Look how he rubs against you. It would be cruel to deny him, don’t you think?”

Charles twists his hand belonging to the wrist in Erik’s grip down to grab Erik’s wrist in turn, stopping him from lunging at Shaw. They’re completely surrounded in the hallway, and there’s nowhere to run and hide on this ship. This is it. This is happening. If they disobey Shaw now it’s almost certain that he’ll take Charles away from Erik, the ever-present threat that hangs over their heads that will never diminish in effectiveness or the amount of terror it invokes in Charles. When Erik turns his head slightly so he can see Charles’ face, Charles can tell that he’s arrived at the same conclusions as well.

They have to do this. They don’t have a choice.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tetsyo** has done an awesome fanart of Charles and Erik's relationship [here](http://tetsyo.tumblr.com/post/106513706123/r-e-l-a-t-i-o-n-s-h-i-p-d-e-v-e-l-o-p-m-e-n-t)!

There’s a loud buzzing sound in Charles’ ears.

As much as Charles doesn’t want to, as much as it makes him feel ill, already humiliated at just the _thought_ of getting down on his knees in front of Shaw and all the inmates and pirates to take Erik’s cock into his mouth, he has to do this. Charles is no stranger to giving head, but this is just another way for Shaw to degrade and demean him so it only makes things worse.

Erik turns his back to Shaw to face Charles fully, sparing no more of his attention for anyone else. He lifts his hands, smoothing them gently up Charles’ arms until they rest on Charles’ shoulders, peering down at Charles carefully. Charles swallows, willing himself to tune out everyone else around them too, narrowing his world down to Erik and only Erik. It makes him strangely guilty to feel so revolted by the thought of sucking Erik’s cock, but it’s not because it’s Erik—it’s about Charles’ lack of choice.

Charles holds Erik’s gaze and steels himself. He can do this. If his survival depends on it—and it truly does, a fact so unfair that he nearly wants to scream—he can push away his pride for a few minutes and do this. He gives Erik a barely perceptible nod, a mere jerk of his chin that Erik must see because he presses down on Charles’ shoulders, gentle but pointed, and despite the nauseating horror churning in his gut Charles allows his knees to bend, dropping down fluidly to the floor at Erik’s feet, resting his clammy hands on his thighs.

Whatever the inmates are shouting at him now is just background noise, words indistinguishable from the loud buzzing in Charles’ ears. Now that Charles is significantly lower, just a little higher than being directly eye-level with Erik’s crotch, Erik’s hands move up to rest in Charles’ hair after Charles gives him another barely-there nod of permission. _Permission_. A foreign concept, on this ship.

He hopes Erik will make this quick, Charles thinks blankly as Erik withdraws one of his hands to pull down the front of his pants just far enough to get his cock out, flopping obscenely against the fabric. Erik isn’t hard, not even close, but that’s not going to fly with this crowd—Charles knows without Shaw even having to say it that he’s going to have to suck Erik off until he comes.

It’s a small comfort, however, that Erik isn’t already hard at the onset of all of this, that he’s not getting off on Charles’ humiliation.

Erik cups Charles’ face gently now, long fingers curling along Charles’ jawline. Charles takes a stuttering breath before forcing himself to calm, scooting forward a little bit on the ground; his knees already ache on the unforgiving floor. Since they’ve taken to fucking in the dark with all the lights off, this is the first time in a long time Charles has seen Erik’s cock, and for a moment he despairs: how is he meant to get all of it in his mouth without choking?

_Use your hands, Xavier,_ Charles tells himself, lifting them at last to settle one on Erik’s hip, curling around the pointed bone for support, while the other he wraps around Erik’s cock, jacking him slowly to get him to perk up a little.

“Use your mouth, not your hand, fucking whore!” a voice cuts through the rest, and Charles flinches but Erik keeps his gentle hold on Charles’ face, fingers sliding back across the soft skin just below his ears.

Erik’s cock is starting to fill in his hand, stimulated to arousal by Charles’ touch. There’s no way anything is going to make this go faster other than getting down to business so Charles takes another deep breath, pushing down the stronger need to curl all the way down to the floor in the fetal position, and then opens his mouth, drawing his lips down over his teeth and closing his eyes as he guides the head of Erik’s cock into his mouth.

He hasn’t done this in awhile, but Charles is familiar enough with the motions. He knows to press his tongue down flat while he’s still working to get in as much length as possible, going slow so he doesn’t choke. Erik is thick, and Charles’ jaw is going to be sore later too on top of everything else that already hurts, but Charles doesn’t let himself think about it now, concentrating only on the task at hand. He keeps his fingers up towards the base of Erik’s cock, stroking him up there while letting as much saliva as he can muster up coat the part of Erik’s cock he can reach, cheeks bulging with the effort. It’s wet and messy and he knows he looks ridiculous but he doesn’t think about it, doesn’t think about it, _doesn’t think about it_.

Erik keeps as still as possible, though Charles can feel him quivering with the effort of not giving into instinct and thrusting forward into Charles’ mouth and Charles is grateful for the consideration. He takes Erik’s cock in as deep as he can manage before he pulls back, almost all the way until only the head is left in his mouth, salty with the taste of precome and finally fully hard. He swipes his tongue across the slit and Erik’s hips give a small jerk forward, Erik’s fingers stroking the sides of Charles’ face a moment later in silent apology. Charles presses onwards, flicking the tip of his tongue against the underside of Erik’s cock, bracing himself this time for Erik’s helpless thrust, and then sucks Erik’s cock back down, sliding his lips all the way up as far as he can reach.

Charles bobs his head for what feels like hours but in reality is probably only a few scant seconds, hollowing out his cheeks as he licks and sucks at Erik’s cock. Erik rocks his hips forward only slightly, and together they create a hesitant kind of rhythm, Erik clearly worried about pushing Charles for too much and Charles still unable to fully let go and lose himself in the act and go to town with his usual skill and fervor despite his best efforts. He can tell he’s doing well enough, providing enough wet heat and hard suction to keep Erik’s erection up, but he knows that this won’t be enough, especially with Erik still holding back too.

Charles breathes in as deeply as he can through his nose and swallows down as much of Erik’s cock as he can again, the head bumping against the back of his throat. He takes his hand off the base of Erik’s cock, sliding it up to grip Erik’s other hip, holding onto him like this with both hands now. Charles cracks open his eyes, rolling them up as far as he can to make eye contact with Erik, hoping that Erik can read the tacit permission in his gaze.

Erik’s face is stoic, carved from veritable stone though probably at the cost of great effort to remain in control with their audience watching. He’s looking down at Charles, though, and when Charles looks back up at him Erik slips his hands further back on Charles’ skull, sliding his fingers gently through Charles’ hair to support the back of his head. Then Erik begins to finally thrust his hips in earnest, fucking Charles’ face while Charles holds his jaws open wide and takes it, sucking and licking up when he can to help bring Erik off faster.

The inmates and pirates are still shouting and cheering, and no doubt several of them have pulled out their own cocks to jerk off at the sight of Charles being completely used. Charles squeezes his eyes shut, allowing himself to only experience the sensation of the thick cock moving back and forth in his mouth and ignoring all the rest. He can feel that Erik is growing close, his thrusts becoming more erratic and forced in the way he always does as he approaches orgasm, and it’s surprising to realize how well he knows Erik’s body now.

“Come on his face, Erik,” Shaw calls over the commotion, “mark the little whore all over his face for everyone to see.”

Even while he’s already on his knees getting his face fucked in front of an audience Charles apparently still has room left for shame, his cheeks burning. Erik’s pace doesn’t falter, so Charles digs his fingers into Erik’s hips, pulling Erik closer and nearly gagging with how deep it sends Erik’s cock plunging down into his throat but he squeezes Erik tightly, hoping that he gets the message—they might not have been able to deny Shaw this spectacle, but they can at least choose how it ends.

Erik snaps his hips forward once, twice more and then buries his cock all the way up to his balls in Charles’ mouth, coming down his throat with a soft groan. Charles keeps his eyes closed while Erik’s hot, stick come washes down his throat, suddenly aware of how much his legs are trembling from the strain of remaining up on his knees and how there are tears from the strain on his mouth leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He feels dirty, with the heavy weight of everyone’s gaze focused on him and suddenly it’s too much, he can’t take it anymore, and he jerks back from Erik, pulling his mouth off his cock with a wet pop. The head bumps against his lips, smearing the last of Erik’s come across them as Charles collapses down, still on his knees but with his legs folded beneath him now, panting.

“Too bad,” Shaw remarks, “he would’ve looked good with a facial.” He’s trying to sound casual and uncaring but Charles knows better. They’ve blatantly disobeyed him in front of witnesses. A small infraction on the grand scale of things, but Charles knows there will be consequences later at some point. Right now he’s too exhausted to care.

Erik tucks himself back into his pants, pulling up the waistband again. He reaches down and hooks one hand underneath one of Charles’ arms, pulling Charles up to his feet. Charles stumbles, his knees aching and his legs shaky as a newborn colt’s, so Erik keeps his grip on him and tugs Charles through the small crowd, shoving people out of the way if they don’t move fast enough. Charles staggers in his wake, still unable to get his feet fully beneath himself to walk properly while his head spins. Amazingly, Shaw doesn’t stop them, turning back to say something to Essex instead.

The elevator doors are wrenched open courtesy of Erik’s powers and seconds later Charles is towed inside and the doors slam shut, blocking the hallway from view. Erik puts both of Charles’ hands on the handrail that lines one wall of the lift as they begin to ascend, making sure that Charles is holding on and able to keep himself standing, and then retreats to the opposite end of the small box, putting as much distance between them as the elevator allows.

Space, Charles thinks distantly, he’s trying to give me space. He’s fiercely grateful for it and spends the elevator ride trying to swallow down the bile that rises in his throat. When the doors open to their deck, he stumbles out on his own and has to force himself not to sprint for their quarters. Erik hurries ahead of him anyway, and by the time Charles reaches him, the door is already open and the lights inside are on.

“Should I—” Erik begins, but before he can finish, Charles is running for the bathroom, slamming his hand onto the panel to turn the sink on and tilting his mouth underneath the cascade of water. It doesn’t take long to wash the taste of come off his tongue, but he stays there for a long minute, drinking to try to soothe the ache of his throat.

When he switches the faucet off, he looks up to find Erik standing tentatively in the doorway. He’s holding a glass of water that’s largely unnecessary now that Charles has just guzzled two dozen mouthfuls of the sink water, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Charles reach out to take the glass from him with a quiet thanks. Erik’s gaze follows him as he drinks the whole glass, like he’s watching for the moment when Charles is going to just crack apart.

He puts the glass down onto the sink counter and says, “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay.” Erik’s eyes flash. “ _That_ was not okay. I should have…”

Charles shakes his head. “There wasn’t anything you could do. You and I, we’re pawns in Shaw’s game. You’re just unlucky that he has some fucking weird vendetta against you.” Charles’ lips twist derisively. “I guess I’m unlucky, too. I’ve got a mouth made to suck a cock, huh?”

Erik’s expression is oddly soft in a way Charles hasn’t seen it before. He gazes at Charles for another long minute before gesturing out the door with a tilt of his head. “Come sit.”

It’s not an order, but Charles obeys anyway. As he settles in on his usual side of the bed, Erik comes to stand by the footboard, a muscle jumping in his clenched jaw. Having learned by now that Erik speaks at his own pace and that no amount of urging will encourage him to spit out his words, Charles sits with his back pressed closely against the headboard, waiting.

Finally, Erik says, “I’m sorry.”

“What happened out there wasn’t your fault,” Charles says calmly. Some part of him is shocked at how steady he feels. Maybe he’s finally reached his threshold for fear and horror, or maybe this detachment is simply a coping mechanism. The events of the last hour _do_ feel impossibly far away, as if Charles had watched them happen to someone else.

“I’m still sorry,” Erik says, his voice rough. He scrubs a hand through his hair in agitation and turns away, his back one long, rigid line of tension. “I wish you had never been on this goddamn ship.”

Charles stares at him for a long moment, a faint idea beginning to burgeon in the back of his head. The longer he allows it to sit, the more and more sense it starts to make. Erik has been kind to him. Erik seems to truly like him. Most importantly, Erik hates Shaw and that implies a desire to get as far away from Shaw as realistically possible, a desire Charles happens to share with frightening intensity.

“Erik,” he says slowly, “let’s get out of here together.”

Erik turns his head enough to give Charles a sideways glance. “It’ll be dangerous in the hallways. The pirates are still onboard and after what just happened out there…”

“No, I don’t mean out of this room. I mean, off this ship.” He gives the words a moment to sink in and then says, “I’m a pilot. I can pilot one of the escape pods if you can get me there. Get _us_ there, I should say. I’m not leaving without my friends. You could clear a path to one of the pods. I could get us out of here.”

As he speaks, Erik turns back around, his eyes widening. Charles is suddenly terrified that he’s been reading Erik wrong this whole time, that Erik is about to drag him out the door to Shaw by his collar and charge him with treason against the captain. But he keeps talking because there’s nothing else he can do, because he’s scared that if he stops, Erik will pounce on him. “The pods are only good for short-distance travel, generally, but there have been cases where modified pods have crossed light years. The IF was experimenting a couple of years ago with one of the more advanced e-pods, an R600. With some tinkering, they managed to achieve warp speed and maintain it for nearly three minutes. Three minutes at warp speed in space could get us a long way, if we timed it right. We just need one of the engineers—Darwin, perhaps—to give the pods on deck nine a look, see what he can…do…”

The realization strikes him like a phaser shot right to his chest. The blueprints Erik studies religiously, Darwin’s talk of Alex’s collaboration with Erik on some secret pet project, Erik’s claim on him from that very first day…

“You’re already planning an escape,” Charles says numbly. “That’s why you told Alex to take Darwin. That’s why you took me.”

Erik gives him one of those tired, almost-smiles and nods. “I thought you would have figured it out by now.”

“All that time…you never told me?” His voice rises in incredulity. “I would have helped. I want to get off this fucking ship more than anyone!”

“I couldn’t trust you,” Erik says. “Not from the beginning. You could have been like your friend Ramirez. That man would have had you killed in order to live. I couldn’t take the chance you would do the same to win favors with Shaw.”

“I would _never_ have!”

“People go to great lengths to survive. They’ll do things they swore they’d never do.”

“And now?” Charles demands. “Do you trust me now?”

A spasm of emotion passes across Erik’s face, too quickly for Charles to decipher them. “More than anyone else on this ship,” he admits, quietly, like it’s a great secret he’s been keeping hidden away for years. “I trust you.”

Just like that, Charles’ anger evaporates. “Why?” he asks a moment later, quiet but curious.

Erik’s jaw tightens and he looks like he’d rather not answer the question. Charles is a second away from telling him to forget about it when he opens his mouth and says, “Because you trusted me with your body. Not by choice,” he amends, “but a lot has been asked of you lately, especially from me.”

“You don’t have a choice either,” Charles starts to say, and Erik shakes his head.

“I still picked you out,” Erik says simply, “and you’ve let me do things to you with admirable grace even though this is shitty all around. You’ve trusted me not to hurt you on purpose, so how can I not trust you in return?”

Charles swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Alright,” he says, “alright.”

“Alex and Darwin are working on modifying the engine on one of the e-pods on the engineering deck,” Erik says, moving on to business while Charles is still left reeling slightly, “and I help them when I can. It’s slow work, and we can’t be obvious about it, but we should be done by the time we reach the Gulesson.”

“The Gulesson,” Charles repeats, heart falling a little though he tries to keep the stark disappointment out of his voice. They’re still three months away from the Gulesson.

Erik nods. “It’s the best we can do. It needs to be done carefully and properly, because none of us are about to cram into an e-pod and then jet ourselves off the ship if we’re just going to end up stuck adrift. We need to be certain that we’ll be able to make it.”

“No, I understand.” Charles thinks for a moment. “Even so, we’re not going to be able to make it _too_ far away before we run out of fuel. What are your plans then?”

“Logan and Rogue are in on it too,” Erik answers, “and Logan claims to have a friend who would be willing to pick us up once we’re far enough away from the Gulesson.”

“Can Logan be trusted?”

“Rogue trusts him,” Erik says dryly, “do you trust Rogue?”

“Yes,” Charles says, surprisingly himself at his own lack of hesitation. “She healed my hand. So _that’s_ what you meant when you called it an insurance payment.”

“Yes,” Erik allows, “everyone knows we need a functioning pilot.”

“Okay,” Charles agrees. Dare he say it, but he thinks he can start to feel a little hope bubbling up in his chest at the prospect of escape. After going so long without it—god, it’s only been a few months but it feels like it’s been two centuries—he startlingly almost wants to cry, a gargantuan weight lifted off his chest. “I’ll have to start looking at the specs with you to make sure, but I can do it. E-pods are easy enough to pilot since they’re designed for anyone who’s jumped in one during the emergency of an evacuation to be able to fly them, but with whatever modifications you’re making it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

Erik looks pleased, nodding again. “Of course.”

“Who else is in on this?”

“That’s all,” Erik replies, “you, me, Logan, Rogue, Alex, and I’m sure Alex will want to bring Darwin.”

Charles does some mental calculations. “That leaves two extra seats in the pod.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “You _know_ we can’t rescue everyone from the crew.”

“I know that,” Charles says, feeling sick at the thought. They’re going to have to leave people behind, and abandon them to this grisly fate. “But we can still fill those two seats.”

“Who were you thinking of, then?” Erik asks after a pause. Charles gets the feeling that he’s not entirely happy with the idea of including more people, but...but. It sounds like he’s willing to concede this to Charles. “It has to be people we can trust not to lose their heads and go spouting off about this. The second anyone catches even the barest _hint_ of the plan, it’s over and we’re all dead.”

“I know,” Charles says quickly, “we don’t even have to tell anyone else right away. We can wait until we’re closer to the Gulesson. But I was thinking of Hank—Dr. McCoy, for certain. And I know another engineer named Angel, if she’s still alright.” He feels horrible, having to narrow down his choices to only two people. But maybe by the time they make it back to real civilization, Shaw will have revealed his plans for the Serenity after they refuel her at the Gulesson, and then they’ll know where to point IF Command to track her down. The rest of the crew can still be saved, and Shaw and the other inmates can be brought back to justice.

“Dr. McCoy,” Erik repeats in agreement, “and Angel. I haven’t heard of her, but the next time I go down to see Alex and Darwin, I’ll have them pull her aside and at least get her working on the e-pod too if she can be trusted not to talk.”

“Angel should be safe,” Charles assures him. He can only hope that she’s _been_ safe these past few weeks, and has managed to evade the worst of the inmates’ treatment.

“Alright,” Erik says, and Charles somehow managed to scrape together a faint, hesitant smile. He feels like they’re finally getting somewhere after all this painful uncertainty and tight-rope walk on knife’s-edge stress. Erik really is the best thing that could have happened to him during all of this; he doesn’t know what he’d be doing right now if Erik hadn’t picked him, and he doesn’t really want to know.

His train of thought is interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn, exhaustion catching up to him at last and making his eyelids droop so heavily that Erik lets out a small huff of breath in amusement.

“Go to sleep,” he says, moving back away from the bed, “you need it.”

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Charles asks, even as he slides himself down the bed so that he’s lying down, pulling the covers up over himself.

“I’ll be right over here,” Erik says quietly, without judgement, settling himself in the desk chair by the holoscreen. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay,” Charles says, the last of his tension draining away, “good.” After that, it doesn’t take him very long to drop off to sleep at all, with the knowledge that he’ll be safe with Erik standing guard.

 

*

 

Charles ends up sleeping for twelve full hours, waking up far later in the morning than he usually does. He mercifully can’t remember if he’s had any dreams while he slept, but the sheets are a bit tangled around his legs and it takes him a few moments to work out how to free himself. Alerted by the movement, Erik looks back over his shoulder from where he still sits at the holoscreen, blueprints open. Charles wonders if he ever sleeps.

“You’re awake,” Erik observes, and he doesn’t ask how Charles feels, which Charles is grateful for. He doesn’t know how he feels, after yesterday. On the surface, at least, he’s tired, but with a tiny spark of fire rekindled within him after Erik revealed his plan. “Will you be alright if I step out while you shower?”

“Yes,” Charles says on his second attempt to speak, his voice coming out as a harsh croak. He clears his throat, trying not to wince at how sore it is. “I’ll be fine.” If he says it out loud, perhaps it will be true.

“I won’t be long,” Erik assures him, so Charles can only nod, stumbling up to his feet and walking over on achy legs into the bathroom.

His throat is an ugly mass of bruises when he examines himself in the mirror after he’s shut the door. There are three distinct lines that go all the way around his neck from Azazel’s tail, a mottled mix of green and purple and black. Just more to the collection, he thinks wearily, since the rest of him is pretty much one large bruise anyway, but these in particular hurt even to look at. At least when he does a quick job at cleaning his teeth and gargles a little, he doesn’t spit out any blood into the sink from the face fucking either.

That thought is starting to draw him down a dark line of memory that he doesn’t want to revisit, so Charles strips off his clothes and climbs into the shower stall, selecting the water panel and proceeding to stand underneath the hot, steamy spray and tries not think about anything at all.

Except his mind is whirling, going over the possibility of their escape. _If_ they can really do this, _if_ they can pull this off...Charles could go home. He could see Raven again, and meet his new nephew or niece. God, she’s getting so close to her due date, if she hasn’t had the baby already. Charles has to close his eyes for a moment just thinking about it, hoping with every atom in his body that everything is well. Raven must be so worried about him, and guilty for not speaking to him before he departed. He hopes she’s stayed healthy for the baby’s sake.

He wonders if Erik even realizes what kind of gift he’s given Charles just by finally including him in the escape plot. Charles hasn’t been able to think about his sister very much since the beginning of this nightmare, only able to focus on surviving one day at a time. But now he can look ahead to the future, and hope again. It makes his heart clench, wanting fiercely for this to work out, to go home.

Charles eventually gets around to actually cleaning himself, scrubbing down every inch of his skin with soap, gentle on the worst of his bruises, and lathering his hair thoroughly before letting it all wash off under the hot spray. When he emerges from the shower to dry off and get dressed again, he feels a little more human again, a little more refreshed in both body and mind.

Either Erik never left or is already back from wherever he went while Charles was in the shower, because he’s standing by the table when Charles steps out of the bathroom, looking like he’s been waiting expectantly.

“What?” Charles asks him, some of his familiar wariness returning, but Erik merely nods down at the table’s surface.

“Brought you something you might like.”

Charles steps closer. Sitting on the table is what looks suspiciously like— “Is that one of the takeaway boxes from the mess hall?”

“It is,” Erik says, pleased. “Essex brought the cook from his ship over so they’ve restarted the galley on this ship. I brought this back for you. Dig in.”

Charles clears the rest of the distance to the table in a blink, prying off the plastic lid of the box. Steam rises up into the air and the delicious scent of hot chicken and mashed potatoes fills his nostrils and makes his mouth instantly water, and Charles snatches up one of the pieces of chicken breast with his hand and takes a huge bite.

“Slow down,” Erik cautions as Charles practically inhales the rest of the piece, “and take a seat, it’s not going anywhere.” The chair next to Charles pulls itself out from the table and nudges him gently. “There’s a thermos of juice, too, if you want.”

Charles drops down into the chair, still too busy eating to answer. After three months of living off of nothing but tubes of paste for food, this is like being in heaven. The chicken is boneless, so he has no trouble polishing it off completely, skin and all, before diving into the second piece. Torn between amusement and mild alarm, Erik merely pushes the thermos of juice across the table at him and then sinks down opposite him to watch him eat, fiddling with the plastic wrap containing disposable silverware and passing Charles the spoon and napkin.

Charles gulps down the rest of the chicken and then moves on to the potatoes, scooping them up with the spoon and wolfing them down so fast that he’s probably going to end up with hiccups. He can’t _help_ it though, he’s been so hungry lately; a constant, background ache gnawing at his belly that he didn’t have time to focus on what with everything else he had to worry about. It isn’t until the potatoes are half gone that he’s able to slow down a little, pausing to take a long drink from the thermos and enjoying the cold, refreshing taste of the juice washing down his throat, a welcome change from all the stale canned water he’s been drinking.

“Thank you,” Charles says after he’s dragged the spoon around the bottom of the container to scrape up any last remnants of food, leaning back in his chair and full of real, solid food for the first time in weeks, “I—thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Erik answers gently, and to avoid holding his gaze for too long Charles busies himself with unfolding his napkin and using it to wipe off his fingers. Erik reaches for the box soon after and as he walks to the waste disposal, Charles studies him. This is the Erik he likes best, the one he only gets to see when it’s just the two of them here in this room.

Leaning his elbows against the tabletop, Charles asks, “Why were you at KG?”

Erik quirks an eyebrow at him. “I bring you good food and suddenly you’re nosy?”

“I’m just wondering. You don’t have to answer.”

Erik walks back over to the table slowly, sinking down across from him again and studying him with an unreadable gaze. Charles stares back, trying not to blink. It’s harder than it sounds. “I killed some people.”

Charles draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. He’d suspected and even _expected_ this, but it’s still another matter to have it confirmed. “Why?”

“Because they deserved to die,” Erik answers simply.

“And you’re the ultimate judge of that?” Charles asks, not out of the desire to be confrontational or to try and prove Erik wrong, but to just—understand. He’d like to understand Erik.

“In this case,” is all Erik says evenly. Charles knows there’s more, there has to be, but he senses that they’re moving into deeply personal territory, more so than any of his own IF Academy stories ever were. He knows for sure that Erik is a killer, and is seemingly unrepentant about it. He wants to understand Erik but he also doesn’t want to dig too deep too fast.

“So why does Shaw hate you so much?” Charles asks next instead.

Erik grimaces. “Because I never played by his rules back at KG.”

“Was he like how he is here, at KG?”

“Maybe two percent humbler since he was still collared there. But for the most part, yes. Shaw ruled the roost, and pretty much decided who was on top and who got fucked. Literally, in some cases, as you’re familiar with.”

Charles’ mouth twists. “Yes.”

“When I was first transported to KG, I was pretty banged up. I started out with a brief stint in the KG hospital, but they only hold you there long enough for any life-threatening injuries to heal and then they chuck you in with the rest, so you can forget about having time to recover your strength. Any form of weakness makes you a pretty easy target, so I was pretty much defenseless. And that’s when Shaw came along.”

Charles doesn’t have to imagine the horrors in store for someone the rest of the inmates deem defenseless—he’s lived them. “Did he—?”

“He asked me what my mutation was, and liked my answer,” Erik says with a small shake of his head, knowing what Charles was trying to ask, “because as you’ve seen, Shaw likes to surround himself with powerful mutants, never mind the fact that at the KG we were all still collared. So he took me under his protection, and for a time I was safe.”

“So he just...absorbed you as one of his followers.”

Erik nods. “I had no idea who anyone was in the prison at the time, or what anyone’s reputation was, so at first I counted myself lucky. Since I was suddenly part of Shaw’s gang, I had immunity from being beaten further, getting turned into someone’s fucktoy, or getting killed while I waited for the rest of my injuries to recover. No one would dare touch me while I was under Shaw’s protection.”

“What changed?” Charles asks.

“As time passed, I got to see more of the real Shaw and how he operated, mainly how he lorded over the rest of the inmates just like he’s doing here. His followers would beat or rape anyone at his command. So as soon as my injuries were sufficiently healed and I knew I could handle surviving without Shaw’s protection, I left his gang.”

“He just let you walk away?” Charles asks, even though it’s obvious enough that Shaw didn’t have Erik killed for the transgression. Still, Charles can’t imagine Shaw just letting Erik go so easily.

“At first he tried to talk to me, and came to find me every few days and cajole me back into joining him.” Erik’s looking past Charles at the far wall as he reminisces. “He didn’t like the fact that I’d taken him for granted. In his eyes, he’d done me a great favor by protecting me while I was injured. True enough, but I told him that it still didn’t make me obligated to follow his orders like a dog.”

“And he didn’t like that.”

“Hardly,” Erik says, faintly dry, but then he grows somber again. “After that he got a little less friendly and said that I was making him look weak in front of the rest of the inmates, for letting me walk away from him unchallenged, and that it was a poor way to repay him after the kindness he’d done me. I told him that I didn’t care, I wasn’t anyone’s to order around like he did the rest of his group of followers. Needless to say, he didn’t like that either.”

“Then what happened?” Charles asks, half-filled with dread.

“He backed off to make himself look gracious, like he was granting me this great boon,” Erik answers, “you’ve seen him in action before. Plus, he had to save a little face since by this point in time, practically the whole prison was watching to see what would happen. I was sort of messing with the hierarchy of things, even though all I really wanted was to be left alone.”

“I believe you,” Charles says, and Erik gives him a slight nod in thanks.

“After that, the attacks starting happening. Shaw would send entire groups of men after me with the sole purpose of beating me bloody and dragging me back to him. I’d made it personal, somehow, and having me killed outright wouldn’t do. It became his new objective, his obsession, to see me made to heel at his side.”

“Where were the prison guards during all of this?” Charles asks, feeling ill. “Didn’t they ever stop fights and keep inmates from killing each other?”

“The prison guards couldn’t have cared less what we were doing to each other, especially in the mutant ward,” Erik says, some of his old contempt creeping back into his voice for a moment. “Half the time they only made things worse, stirring people up on purpose or if they _did_ feel like breaking up a fight, they would only drag the perpetrators out to the yard and beat us themselves until we couldn’t walk. I was able to handle any of the men Shaw threw at me, and most of my worse injuries came from the prison guards instead. We couldn’t fight back when they beat us, you see. They had us shackled down for that.”

Charles swallows. “I’m sorry.”

Erik lets out a breath. “Anyway. That’s eventually how I met Logan and Rogue. Logan can’t stand Shaw either. Rogue convinced us both that it would be wisest for the three of us to stick together, as much as Logan had no interest in getting back into the politics, as he called them, of the prison, and as much as I was still determined to rely on no one ever again so I wouldn’t have to owe anyone favors. It was obvious, though, that I wouldn’t be able to last much longer on my own, so I agreed. Logan only agreed because he’ll do pretty much anything Rogue says.”

“And Alex?”

“Another stray Rogue picked up.”

“So Shaw still thinks you owe him for when he helped you at the beginning, and doesn’t like you because you’ve refused to bend to his will,” Charles says, trying to get things straight, “so what made you change your mind now on this ship?”

“Because I knew it would be my one chance of escaping,” Erik answers, “both from Shaw and from prison. I have no intentions of rotting away in a jail cell, and this was the perfect opportunity. I’d heard that Shaw was planning something for when we were being transported, so it didn’t take much to convince him that my powers would make his whole operation go a lot more smoothly. I can handle playing at being his underling if it means I’ll have the chance to escape.”

“I see.” And Charles does understand. Erik’s just doing what he has to do in order to survive. Shaw’s grudge against Erik, his perceived slight, is petty at best but that means very little as Shaw is the current captain and commander. Charles knows now where all Shaw’s talk about fairness comes from—it’s easy to dictate what is and isn’t fair when you’re the one under the impression that everything is owed to you.

“He’s using you as a way to get to me too, and I am sorry about that,” Erik adds quietly. “I always refused to take part in the rapes and beatings he ordered on people when I was still in his group, which he sees as a weakness. Forcing me to rape you, since I claimed you, is his way of revenge. But as long as he doesn’t know _why_ I claimed you in the first place…”

“We’ll get through this,” Charles says. “We’re already ahead of him on that since we’ve...worked things out. He can go on believing that you’re raping me. It works in our favor in the long run if he thinks he’s won, because then he never _will_ figure out the real reason you picked me out until it’s too late.”

“I’m still sorry,” Erik says simply, and for a man so prideful based on the story he’s just told Charles he certainly apologizes with grace. “I wasn’t counting on him taking such a vested interest in me fucking you. My original plan was to merely pick a pilot out and keep him or her in my quarters under the guise that I was using them as a fucktoy, but in reality I had no plans to touch them. I just needed them kept whole so that when the time came, they’d be amenable to flying the e-pod out of here. I should have expected Shaw to use that opportunity.”

“Yes, well. I think it’s safe to always expect the worst from him.”

Erik smiles mirthlessly. “That’s been my experience.”

For a long while they sit together in a comfortable silence, each buried deep in his own thoughts, until something else occurs to Charles. “Erik, how long were you at KG before this transfer?”

Erik looks at him steadily from across the table. “Six years.”

“Oh,” Charles says softly. Six years. Not the longest time anyone has ever spent in prison, but still a long time to live under Shaw’s reign of terror and the prison guards’ brutality. It’s amazing that Erik hasn’t become a monster himself.

“Oh,” Erik agrees, and they lapse back into thoughtful silence again.

A sharp prick at his neck pulls Charles back to the present and, after a moment of consideration, he says, “Erik, you trust me, don’t you.”

“That’s what I said.”

Charles hooks his fingers under the collar and tugs. “Would you take this off? Just in here. In private, with the two of us.”

Erik hesitates. “If Azazel came…”

“Please,” Charles says. “I don’t care if he comes; we’ll deal with that if it happens. But this…I can’t wear it any longer. I need it off.”

He’s needed it off since the moment it snapped around his neck. He’s shocked that he’s been able to bear it even this long. Certainly the one thing that can be said about the last few grueling weeks is that they distracted him from the inhibitors rushing through his system. He’s been too generally exhausted to pay as much attention to his powerlessness than he usually would, but whenever he does turn his mind to it, the emptiness in his head _aches_.

“It isn’t going to make your powers come back. The drug needs time to wear off.”

“I know,” Charles says, swallowing.

“Alright then,” Erik says, with a readiness that surprises Charles for a second before he remembers that Erik knows exactly what it’s like to be cut off from his powers. “But if anyone comes near, it’s going back on.”

“Agreed.”

He expects Erik to wave his hand and have the collar off in a heartbeat. Instead, Erik moves over to the chair directly to his left and scoots it forward until their knees are nearly touching. Carefully, he lays his hand against the side of Charles’ neck, fingers light against the bruises underneath. The collar melts away from around his throat, as cool as water trickling off his skin. It’s one of the most curious sensations Charles has ever experienced, and when he looks, the collar reforms itself in Erik’s other hand into a perfect, black circle.

It’s a moment before he realizes Erik’s right hand is still on him, his thumb brushing Charles’ lower cheek. Then his hand is sliding to the back of Charles’ neck, pulling him forward, and Charles knows he has time to jerk away, knows Erik would stop in an instant if Charles told him to. But he lets Erik lean forward, further and further until finally, their mouths meet.

Erik’s strong fingers curl up to bury themselves in Charles’ hair, but his kiss is tentative and shy. He’s more hesitant than Charles was on his very first kiss when he was fifteen, and Charles can’t explain the sudden emotion that swells up in his chest. Cupping Erik’s face in his own hands, he pulls Erik closer until every single one of his senses seems to fill with Erik: Erik’s scent in his nose, Erik’s skin under his fingertips, Erik’s wide-open eyes imprinted into his memory, Erik’s taste thick on his tongue. Charles doesn’t usually like kissing with his eyes open, but he can’t look away from Erik’s face, can’t help the pleasure that thrills through him when he licks into Erik’s mouth and draws a soft moan from him.

Gaining confidence when Charles doesn’t pull away and rebuke him, Erik leans forward to deepen the kiss, sucking on Charles’ tongue to pull a similar sound from Charles, their noses brushing when Erik chases Charles’ tongue back into Charles’ mouth to take control. Charles parts his lips and lets Erik explore with a soft sigh, eyes finally sliding closed at the velvet-soft swipe of Erik’s tongue across his own. He’s only mimicking what Charles had been doing moments before but just like with chess, Erik is a quick study.

They part simultaneously with the mutual need for air, but they don’t go far; Erik keeps his hand on the back of Charles’ neck, fingers curled through his hair and leans his forehead against Charles’, drawing in lungfuls of air in the scant space between them. Charles keeps his eyes closed, leaning forward against Erik with his hands still cupping Erik’s face. Neither of them are particularly winded—it wasn’t that desperate of a kiss—but it still feels profound, like something has shifted between them and it’s cause to feel light-headed.

Charles slides his hands down the sides of Erik’s neck, smoothing along his shoulders and stopping there to hold on as he tilts his head up again, seeking Erik’s lips by instinct and touch to initiate a second kiss. Erik meets him eagerly and then they’re lost again, mouths sliding together with more intent, the almost ringing silence in the room punctuated by soft, wet sounds and tiny gasps for breath in between kissing each other breathless for real this time.

At some point Erik’s other hand has crept around Charles’ back to fist tightly in his shirt at first before smoothing out flat, drawing Charles closer into himself while they kiss. Charles leans so far forward now that he’s practically slipping off the edge of his chair, drawing back abruptly with a surprised huff of breath when he really nearly does fall.

Erik lets him move back but maintains his grip on Charles gently. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are shiny from their kisses, and Charles has no doubt that he looks similar. “Come over here?” Erik asks, tilting his head in the direction of the bed.

Charles hesitates. There’s a line here, somewhere, that they’re about to cross if they haven’t already. Unless there was never a line to begin with—Shaw’s involvement in everything between him and Erik up until now has both tainted things and thrown them into confusing light. Charles doesn’t know what he’s supposed to _do_ anymore.

“You can say no,” Erik tells him softly, fingers stroking the fine hairs at the nape of Charles’ neck with reverent care, “it’s alright. But I do owe you a blowjob.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Charles says automatically, the words out of his mouth before he can even think about them. Once they’re out, however, he knows he means them. He doesn’t hold Erik accountable. Not for that.

“I know you think that,” Erik answers, meeting his gaze unabashedly, “but if you’re willing, I would like to. Not because Shaw wants me to, but because _I_ want to. I’d like to make you feel good, Charles, if you’ll let me.”

“I can say no?” Charles whispers, feeling like a livewire is quivering in his chest, electrifying and heady, like he’s liable to explode. He’s being given his free will back.

“Yes,” Erik answers him seriously, no hint of mockery or amusement. His fingers stroke Charles’ hair one last time before he gently lets go, sitting back a little. “We can do whatever you’d like, Charles.”

Charles has to swallow again at the open sincerity in Erik’s voice, embarrassed that he almost wants to cry—he can feel the tears, thick and hot, prickling at the corners of his eyes as he stares at Erik, brow furrowed. He almost does want to say no, just for the novelty of it, of being able to say it again, of having the choice to. But...he wants Erik to touch him outside the confines of their forced couplings brought about by Shaw’s threats. This time would be just for them, both of them fully consenting.

Erik may be a criminal, sentenced to jail for killing people, but Charles has spent the past few months living in very close confines with him, completely at Erik’s mercy. Erik could have hurt him dozens of times over again—and he did, in the beginning, but only to put on a show for Shaw and his cronies, which in this fucked up reality can be chalked up to a lesser evil. But when he fucked Charles he was always gentle and careful, allowing Charles to take the lead where any other inmate on the ship would have greedily pinned him down and fucked him till he bled and then kept going.

And now Erik sits before him patiently, having given Charles back the choice to turn him down, even if it’s only just this once. They’ll still have to fuck later, to keep up appearances and meet Shaw’s sick expectations, but this time isn’t about Shaw. It’s about them.

Charles stands, reaching forward to take Erik’s hand. “Okay,” he says softly, giving him a light tug so he stands as well, the motion putting them chest-to-chest, “okay.”

Erik doesn’t ask if he’s sure, accepting Charles’ answer the first time, which Charles is grateful for. He leans down to brush his lips against Charles’ in a chaste kiss, brief and sweet, before murmuring, “Come lie down.”

Charles allows himself to be led away from the table and over to the bed, their hands still linked, and it’s strange how much lighter he feels without the collar around his neck. It isn’t by any means a heavy device, and it’ll be hours before Charles’ telepathy shows any hint of returning—odds are he’ll have to put the collar back on for his shift on the bridge long before, anyway—but he feels free.

“Lights?” Erik asks him, drawing him back to the present. They’ve stopped by the edge of the bed, linked hands between them while Erik’s free hand comes up to trace lightly down Charles’ side as if he can’t resist touching.

“Lights 25%,” Charles says in answer, and the room dims down considerably. Having the lights on fully would make Charles feel a little too exposed, but this way they can still see each other instead of doing this in the dark like they’ve been doing.

They strip themselves easily enough, and they’ve had enough sex by now for Charles to not feel too self-conscious standing in front of Erik naked. The very first time they had sex there’d been light, so he’s seen Erik before: all lean muscle and zigzagging scars, and of course Erik’s cock that Charles is the most intimately familiar with. He doesn’t have to worry about that this time, though. This time Erik is making it about Charles.

He feels oddly nervous as he climbs onto the bed, lying back on the sheets but half propped up against the headboard with a pillow beneath his back so that he’s sitting up a little. He parts his legs widely enough for Erik to settle between them and these motions are familiar too, but this time Erik doesn’t range up over him and slide his hand down immediately to Charles’ hole to check and see if he’s ready enough.

Instead Erik lies down flat on his belly below Charles, far enough up so that Charles’ thighs brush against his shoulders and Erik’s face is level with Charles’ cock. It occurs to Charles that Erik didn’t have to strip at all for this and could have remained fully clothed—and so could have Charles, for that matter. He could have just taken his cock out of his pants and had Erik kneel down and suck him off on the floor—but they’d both just...stripped.

Charles finds that he likes it. It feels more equal, and not a powerplay like Shaw’s set up.

“Tell me if you ever want me to stop,” Erik says, his words ghosting across Charles’ cock, and Charles can feel himself beginning to perk up with interest. It helps that Erik’s placed one long-fingered hand on Charles’ thigh, his thumb stroking the soft skin close to the juncture of Charles’ leg and groin. “If anything makes you uncomfortable, just tell me and I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” Charles says, something giving way inside his chest. There’s no denying how safe he feels with Erik, and this is only cementing that feeling further. Another thought occurs to him, and a tad bit mortified, Charles adds, “Um, I’m probably not going to last very long. Because…”

“It’s alright,” Erik assures him, and honestly who would know better than Erik at this point. Charles hasn’t let himself come once during all the sex they’ve had, and it’s not like he’s been jacking himself off in the shower either on the occasions he’s gotten fully hard. Now that he’s finally going to allow himself to enjoy this and reach orgasm, his cock is probably going to go off like a rocket. “Don’t worry. Just let me help you feel good.”

With that, Erik leans forward and licks a long, hot stripe down Charles’ cock, and if Charles hadn’t been very hard before aside from the slowly pooling interest of having an admittedly attractive man’s face down between his legs, now his hips practically jerk up and he gives a muffled gasp and his cock picks up at once. Erik does it again, laving the underside of Charles’ cock attentively while sliding both his hands up to rest on top of Charles’ hip bones to pin him gently down in place.

Charles tries not to whimper when Erik ducks down lower to pay homage to his balls, licking at them until Charles is trembling, mouth open and panting by the time Erik starts to suckle on them. Erik rolls them gently in the hot, wet heat of his mouth and Charles’ hands fist in the bedsheets, his cock standing straight up at attention now and leaking beads of precome.

Erik drags his tongue up from the base of Charles’ cock to the very tip to begin lapping at the head, his thumbs tracing circles into Charles’ skin at his hips while he licks up white, sticky precome. Charles gives a low moan at the sight, nearly delirious with the white-hot arousal pooling in his belly that’s only serving to wind him tighter and tighter like a coiled spring.

This isn’t at all like the blowjob he’d given Erik in the hallway, Charles thinks dazedly as Erik swirls his tongue around the head of Charles’ cock one last time before opening his mouth and slowly beginning to take Charles in. Erik is practically worshipping his cock, paying attention to every single one of Charles’ gasps and moans, wringing the pleasure out of Charles as he lowers his head, lips stretched wide around the girth of his cock and hollowing out his cheeks as he begins to suck. Even before it had turned into a mere face fucking, the blowjob in the hallway had been impersonal and without feeling—not that it could have ever been anything else, with Shaw and everyone watching—but here and now, as Charles writhes beneath Erik while Erik sucks him, pulling out breathless moans and little helpless, hitched breaths from Charles’ lips, it’s clear that true consent makes an entire world of difference.

The noises Erik’s making are obscene, slurping sounds that seem loud in the room while he works Charles’ cock. Without pausing in his rhythm, Erik reaches up to grasp one of Charles’ hands, bringing it down to place on top of his head. Charles slides his fingers through Erik’s hair, gripping him but not wanting to pull too hard, his arm moving up and down with the motion of Erik’s head. Erik merely gives Charles’ hip a small squeeze, glancing up at Charles with smokey, half-lidded eyes, and Charles understands the permission he’s being given.

Charles begins to thrust up into Erik’s mouth and that perfect slick, enveloping heat, groaning when he feels the muscles of Erik’s throat fluttering around him to create the perfect channel. The head of his cock hits the back of Erik’s throat and Erik _swallows_ , gagging a little on it, and Charles is done for, coming at last down Erik’s throat with a long, drawn out moan. He nearly sees stars, his vision whiting out for a few blissful moments, and it’s never felt so good to reach orgasm before until now, his entire body slumping back down limply onto the sheets.

Erik holds Charles’ cock in his mouth until Charles has stopped spurting, swallowing everything down without complaint. Charles feels like he’s been cast adrift, his brain leaking out from his ears—or perhaps down through his cock—after such an intense, mind-blowing orgasm, and it takes him what feels like hours to come back down to the present. Erik carefully pulls back off his cock, lapping at it some more to clean Charles off until Charles shifts weakly, making a faint sound of protest when the touch becomes too much for his oversensitized skin.

Erik relents at once, turning his head sideways into Charles’ inner thigh to nuzzle at his skin, pressing a soft, brief kiss there that makes Charles shiver. For a few minutes, they simply lie in silence, breathing together.

“Alright?” Erik asks finally, his lips grazing Charles’ thigh.

“I’m…” Charles brushes his fingers slowly through Erik’s hair as his heartbeat gradually calms. “Yeah. More than alright.” He hasn’t felt this loose and relaxed in what feels like a lifetime. All he wants to do now is wrap Erik in his arms and sleep, the threat of Shaw and his criminal crew be damned.

After another minute, Erik pushes himself up and out from between Charles’ legs and slides off the edge of the bed. Watching him with one eye cracked open, Charles asks, “Where are you going?”

“To the shower.”

Only then does Charles realize that Erik is half-hard against his thigh. With an effort, he sits up and scoots toward him, licking his lips to wet them. “I can take care of that if you want.”

Erik’s smile then could be described as nothing other than fond. He raises a hand to stroke it through Charles’ hair and says, “Tempting. But not now. Get some sleep.”

“Are you sure?” Charles can’t help but asking, not wanting to seem ungrateful even though Erik is giving him a free pass.

“This was about you, not me,” Erik refuses him gently, before adding ruefully, “and I think I can stand to be the one to walk away without coming this time.”

“Alright,” Charles says, scooting back a little so he can lie back down on the sheets. “Thank you. For this. I—it was good.”

Erik reaches down to squeeze Charles’ calf lightly before folding the blanket over him. “I’ll wake you before your shift. Get some rest, Charles.”

Charles is halfway through a noise of agreement when he yawns, eyes already shutting. He hears Erik move across the room, and by the time the bathroom door slides shut Charles is already dropping off to sleep, warm, safe, and for the first time in months, nearly content.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: violence

It’s astounding how rapidly their situation becomes normal. They wake up together, have breakfast, and get dressed. They’ve started to share the bathroom in the morning cycles, which leads to awkward jostling for space and sleepy smiles that always feel more bashful in the early morning hours than at night. They report to the bridge when ordered and remain there until Ramirez is deemed rested enough to be sent back up. Sometimes Erik goes off on his own business after depositing Charles back in their rooms and sometimes he stays and they sit together in comfortable silence as Erik works at the holoscreen or they play chess.

At night, before they sleep, they have sex one way or another, but it no longer feels entirely like a chore. Erik’s touches are gentle and oddly shy, and he seems to delight in making Charles come before he does. He kisses Charles all over and dutifully sucks bruises into his neck and down his chest, but Charles knows his eyes aren’t deceiving him when he looks in the mirror and sees that the bruises are lighter than they ever were before, more love bites than signs of violence.

Part of him worries what Shaw will say the next time—and he dreads the next time as much as he’s certain it’s coming—when he orders Charles to strip down to bare the evidence of Erik’s brutality. But those concerns feel so far away when Erik is licking his ear or scraping his teeth lightly along Charles’ ribs or sucking Charles’ cock like he’s never wanted anything more.

It’s frightening how attentive a lover Erik is. Charles almost wishes he weren’t, because this thing between them has to end sometime and it’s going to be ugly.

He reminds himself of that again and again but he still can’t help but sit down on the opposite side of the chess boards whenever Erik asks, and he can’t find it in himself to resist whatever Erik wants. The maddening thing is, he and Erik are so _compatible_ , even as different as they are, and Charles might have liked him to a ridiculous degree if they’d met anywhere but on this godforsaken ship. But here they are and their entire relationship is tainted by the way it began and by the specter of Shaw hanging over their shoulders, liable to pounce at any moment. It’s almost enough to make Charles wish that Erik didn’t care for him at all, when it’s so obvious that Erik very much does.

One night, Erik returns from an excursion with a bag in his hand that he hands to Charles, who’s playing the computer at chess. “What’s this?” Charles asks as he takes the package.

“Open it and see.”

Curious, Charles unwraps the plastic to find an old, handheld datapad, several models outdated. It must have come from the quarters of one of the older crewmembers who still clung to old-fashioned technology.

Charles presses the start-up button and watches the login screen pop up. “I’m surprised you’d trust me with this.”

“It’s been programmed to have limited function,” Erik admits. “But I figured you could use some entertainment. The username is your initials.”

“CX?”

“CFX.”

“And the password?” Charles asks, filling in the top blank.

When Erik is silent, Charles glances up at him questioningly. Erik looks almost embarrassed as he answers, “My initials. It wasn’t my idea; I had Darwin reprogram the device for you and he thought it was amusing. I’m to report your exact reaction to him later.”

Erik, embarrassed by a little sentiment. Charles tries not to find it utterly charming and fails.

“I think it’s adorable,” he declares, mostly to see the color in Erik’s cheeks deepen. “What _are_ your initials?”

“EML.”

“Erik…”

“Magnus Lehnsherr.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“Oh shut up,” Erik says good-humoredly, and Charles laughs.

The datapad, it turns out, is restricted to only a few inane card games, a journaling application, and a selection of books. Still, it’s much more than Charles had before, and he scans through his choices avidly, glad to have a break in the boredom.

“I wasn’t sure what books you liked,” Erik explains, watching Charles closely, “but I told Darwin to give you a variety. He was concerned that downloading a significant amount of the ship’s public library would draw attention so you only have a few.”

‘A few’ turns out to be over a thousand volumes, which is more than enough to keep Charles occupied for weeks on end. “Thank you,” he says, glancing through the lists. “This is…” The fact that he’d gone out of his way to find the datapad and have Darwin reprogram it for Charles, the fact that he’d taken time away from his plans and business to give Charles something so unnecessary—it’s a kindness, one Erik never needed to consider. Charles isn’t sure how to feel.

“You didn’t have to,” he manages finally.

Erik smiles, clearly pleased. “I wanted to.” He strips his shirt off over his head as he walks toward the bathroom. “I don’t need to tell you to hide it when others are around. It doesn’t leave the room.”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

As Erik starts up the shower, Charles explores the datapad. The comm system that’s usually linked in is disabled, as expected, but the calendar and mini star chart are available to him and he pulls both up. A small green dot signals their location in OZ-56, still a long way from the Gulesson and an even longer way from Shaw’s final destination.

It’s August 30, Charles notes after a moment, a numbness beginning to spread from his stomach outward. Raven was due yesterday.

He lays the datapad down and forces himself to breathe evenly for a few minutes. The bridge has a calendar, of course, but he hadn’t really processed the date until just now. Has it really been almost four months since he left Corellia? Have they really been sailing through OZ space for so long, further and further away from civilization and from rescue with every passing day?

Raven will have had the baby by now. If there were any complications, if she had difficulties with the birth…

No, she’ll be fine. Modern-day obstetric medicine is excellent, as is neonatal care. Charles looked it up once in Raven’s early pregnancy and found that the last time a mother had died in childbirth was over fifty years ago. The last time a child died was over forty. The odds are so overwhelmingly in their favor.

Raven and the baby would be at the hospital now, recovering from the labor. Irene would be hovering at her bedside of course, attentive and calm as always. The doctor might clear them to go home as early as this afternoon, and they’d be settled in with their new family before the sun could rise again. Perhaps Moira had been there, as she’d promised. Maybe she’d brought a set of ugly baby clothes to match her rather staid fashion sense and maybe Raven had given her a horrified look and thrown them directly out.

The thought makes Charles smile, even as a lump begins to rise in his throat. He wishes fiercely that he could have been there, that he’d never agreed to pilot this fucking ship in the first place, that he’d just stayed home like he was supposed to and gone on to watch his nephew or niece being born and gifted them the sort of obnoxious baby bibs he knows Raven would hate.

He can’t stop the swell of tears that sting his eyes even as he tries to blink them away. God, he misses home so fucking much. Things would have been so different if only he’d ignored Moira’s call that night on Corellia, if he’d just said no. But he’d answered his comm and he’d agreed to go, and now, more likely than not, he’s going to die out here in the blackness of space. Raven will never know exactly what happened to him, nor will any of his friends. They won’t find his body either, not with this much space to cover. He’ll just be gone.

 _Get a grip_ , he struggles to tell himself. _Erik has a plan. We’re going to get out of here. We’re going to escape._

But then what? They’ve never talked about what will happen when— _if_ —they escape. Erik is a killer, a criminal. There’s no way he’ll consent to flying back into IZ space where Federation law will demand his immediate arrest. Out here in the OZs, he’ll have a much better chance of living out his life, free of the Federation’s watchful eye and iron fist. He won’t kill Charles once they’re free, of that much Charles is certain. But he may set Charles adrift, convinced they should go their separate ways, and that could mean a death sentence out here in the OZs. At the very least, Charles’ chances of making it all the way back to Corellia on his own are dishearteningly low.

God. He really is stuck out here, isn’t he. He really isn’t going home.

“Charles?”

He hadn’t heard the shower stop, but Erik is standing beside the bed, concern written across his face. He’s not wearing any clothes, which means that he’s ready for sex, but the thought of fucking tonight makes Charles distinctly miserable. He just feels lost and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel secure again.

“I’m okay,” he says as he scrubs his sleeve over his cheeks. “I’m just…” He pushes the datapad away so that the calendar isn’t facing him anymore. “My sister had her baby yesterday. I’m coming to terms with the fact that I won’t ever see it.”

Erik stares at him. “You _are_ going to see it. We’re getting out of here, Charles.”

“Erik.” Charles spreads his hands helplessly. “We’re out in the middle of OZ space. Without a starship with as much engine power as the Serenity, it could take years to get back to my home. You can’t even return to the IZs anyway. And that’s only if we _do_ succeed, which you know is already a slim chance. Shaw could find out at any moment. You think you’ve been subtle but you can’t hide a modified e-pod forever. If he finds it, he’ll kill us. No, he’ll kill _you_ and he’ll take me and he’ll—he’ll—”

“Shhh,” Erik whispers, climbing onto the bed to take him into his arms. Charles knows he’s close to hyperventilating but the breaths just keep coming and he’s dizzy from the air.

He’s dizzy from the _helplessness_ of it all, from the idea that even if they escape this ship, the nightmare might still not be over. It may never end.

“Breathe for me, Charles,” Erik says, holding him close. “You’re going to be alright. Just breathe for a moment.”

He closes his eyes and focuses on Erik’s heartbeat beneath him, on Erik’s hand stroking gently through his hair. Gradually, his own pulse slows to a reasonable pace and he can breathe again without feeling like there’s a black hole opening up in the middle of his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says, thumping his head against Erik’s shoulder. “God, I hate this. I’m not normally so…weepy and dramatic, I swear.”

“I think I’d be surprised if you weren’t weepy and dramatic,” Erik replies. His fingers are still carding through Charles’ hair pleasantly, and Charles can’t help but lean into the touch. “I’d say you’re holding up pretty well considering what you’ve been through.”

Charles isn’t sure how much of that is his natural resiliency or his stubborn refusal to dwell on what’s happened to him so far, but whatever it is, he’s glad it’s kept him from breaking down in front of anyone but Erik, and, in the very beginning of this nightmare, Hank. If he broke in public, in front of Shaw…God, he doesn’t even want to consider it. The smug look on the monster’s face would probably make him throw up.

“Feeling better?” Erik asks after a while.

“A little.”

“Come on, let’s get you in the bathroom. You’ll probably feel better once you’ve cleaned up.”

He lets Erik propel him into the shower and spends a few calming minutes standing under the hot spray of water. By the time he’s clean, he feels a little embarrassed at his outburst and steps out of the shower fully intending to apologize again for being so hysterical.

Unexpectedly, the bathroom door is open and Erik is standing by the counter, searching through the cabinets for something.

“Er,” Charles says awkwardly. While they’ve gotten used to sharing the bathroom in the mornings, the door always remains shut and locked when one of them is showering. He reaches for the towel and asks, “What are you doing?”

It takes Charles a moment to recognize the thin device in Erik’s hand as the sonic razor. “I’m getting scruffy,” Erik says, holding it up. “So are you. I thought I could…” He shrugs one shoulder. “Would you like me to shave you?”

Charles distinctly remembers the last time they’d done this. How gentle Erik had been, how closely he’d stood between Charles’ legs. Then, they’d still been wary and uncertain with each other. Now…

He knows without having to think about it that letting Erik touch him like this is going to feel more intimate than sex. Much more intimate than it had been the last time Erik had shaved him and cut his hair. Maybe much more intimate than he can handle.

Erik reads his expression and turns the razor around so that the handle faces Charles. “You can do it yourself if you want. And if you want your hair cut, you can have the scissors after.”

Erik, it seems, trusts wholeheartedly once he’s decided to start. It’s a little astonishing, really, how much Erik seems to casually trust him now; though the razor is hardly dangerous, the scissors could be. And yet Erik would let him have them if he wanted.

After a moment, Charles gently pushes the razor back to him and says, “Do it for me. Please.”  

Erik’s eyes go soft in a way that Charles is starting to get used to. “Up on the counter then.”

It’s easier this time, with his collar off. These last few days have been nothing short of glorious, with Erik releasing Charles from the collar every time they’re alone. They haven’t been caught yet, which only makes them bolder; Erik dares to leave the collar off for longer and longer periods of time, until finally, only yesterday, Charles had felt a tickle against his mind, like a raindrop on an expanse of desert sand. Spending so long on the inhibitors has probably wreaked havoc on his powers but if they can slowly wean him off the drugs, he’s sure his telepathy will normalize again. It’ll probably take ages but it’ll happen, and that light at the end of the tunnel is enough to keep him from going mad at the emptiness that’s been echoing inside his head for weeks on end.

The collar is off now, having been removed at the end of Charles’ shift. Without it, Erik has full access to Charles’ skin, running the warm washcloth across Charles’ throat before gently slathering on the shaving cream. It’s cold but Charles holds still, trying not to even breathe as Erik touches him. He’s hyperaware of Erik’s every movement: the way Erik’s fingers brush his jaw, the way Erik’s eyes flicker over his face, the way Erik’s hip nudges against Charles’ knee to get him to open his legs. Erik takes the razor in hand and turns it on before touching Charles’ chin to get him to lift his head. Then he floats the razor with a flick of his hand and begins.

This time is different, just as Charles had suspected it would be. Erik still shaves him with precision and efficiency, keeping the razor flowing evenly over Charles’ skin to catch every hint of stubble. But his touches are less clinical, almost caresses. And the soft light in his eyes can’t be called anything other than quiet affection.

It dawns on Charles that Erik truly likes him. He had known, of course, that Erik favored him and that Erik was fond of him like one might be of a friend. But sitting there on the counter as Erik cares for him, so gently and conscientiously, he realizes for the first time that Erik’s feelings might run deeper than friendship. His heart seems to migrate somewhere into his throat and lodge there, a stubborn lump he can’t swallow.

Something in his face must show because Erik pauses and murmurs, “Alright?”

“Fine,” Charles manages, closing his eyes. Erik must be able to feel his rapid pulse in his throat but he mercifully refrains from commenting. Erik might love him. _Erik might love him._ The thought pounds through his head in circles, again and again until the words become less like words and more like feelings. Oh god, Charles thinks faintly. Oh my god.

It’s the worst possible situation to be in love. Everything’s fucked up and a real relationship wouldn’t mean a thing here, wouldn’t last a day. It’s not as if they can go on dates and hold hands and do gross couple things that would make Raven mime throwing up. It’s not as if they can say _I love you_ period, because if Shaw ever found out…if Shaw knew…

It takes Charles a minute to realize that the heaviness gathering in his chest is disappointment. He’s _disappointed_ that they won’t get a chance to explore these burgeoning feelings between them, and it hits Charles with stunning force that he might be in love with Erik, too.

Erik stops. “Are you sure you’re alright? You’re breathing hard.”

“Sorry,” Charles says, trying to keep his breaths tiny. “I’ll be still.”

“I’ll stop the moment you ask. You know that.”

“I know.” He wants to tell Erik to stop being so careful with him but the words don’t come out. “Please keep going,” he says instead.

After a moment, Erik obeys, trailing the sonic razor lightly over his cheek. Charles tells himself not to open his eyes. If he opens his eyes, he’ll see Erik’s face and he’ll probably break. He’ll probably blurt out something stupid and ruin everything. Their relationship is already complicated enough without unruly feelings getting in the way. It would be better if neither of them felt anything but it’s too late for Charles now and maybe too late for Erik, too.

But Charles will be doing both of them a favor by not mentioning it. No one can know, not even Erik. Love in a time like this, when every tomorrow is uncertain…there’s no point to it. The Gulesson is still so far away. The possibility of escape is so distant it might not even be real. Maybe once they’re out of Shaw’s grasp, maybe when they’re free and safe and he and Erik are no longer bound by this awful cycle of obligation…maybe then he’ll be able to say something. But not now. Definitely not now.

Erik finishes shaving him and wipes the remaining cream off with the washcloth. “There,” he says, tilting Charles’ chin up and down. “Better.”

Charles considers, for the briefest of seconds, asking if he could shave Erik in return. But no—he’s not sure if he could stand touching Erik like that without kissing him. He wants Erik, he just _wants_. It aches like a hot stone burning through his stomach and he wishes fiercely he could just press his lips to Erik’s and whisper, “I think I might be in love with you,” but he’s terrified of what will happen. It’s not as if he and Erik can part ways peaceably if it doesn’t work out. If Charles’ confession causes a schism between them, there’s much more than Charles’ pride on the line. Keeping his mouth shut now is a matter of survival.

“Maybe you had better go lie down,” Erik says with a frown. “You’re acting strangely.”

“I think I should,” Charles says weakly, sliding off the counter. As Erik turns to start shaving his own face, Charles slips past him into the bedroom. Discarding the towel he’d wrapped around his waist, he climbs into trousers and a clean shirt and then slides into bed. The datapad lies where he left it, one blue light blinking slowly on its frame, indicating its hibernating status. He stares at it for a moment and very deliberately does not think about the date or Corellia or Raven. Keeping his mind blank, he sets the datapad on the nightstand and says, “Lights off.”

A few minutes later, Erik emerges from the bathroom and moves around the bedroom for a while. After he skirts around the bed a few times, Charles realizes they haven’t had sex tonight. He’s exhausted but he sits up and says, “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Erik hesitates for a moment before climbing on the bed. But instead of settling himself on top of Charles, he slides in beside him and pulls him down so that they’re lying side by side.

“Erik…”

“Let’s not tonight,” Erik whispers. “Shaw won’t be able to tell yesterday’s bruises from today’s. Let’s just…sleep.”

Sleep. In Erik’s arms. They’ve never slept in the same bed before, not for long anyway. If they both happen to doze off after sex one of them always wakes up before long and hurries awkwardly out of the bed. The bed is for sex and for Charles to sleep in alone.

This is a bad idea, Charles thinks as Erik pulls him closer, his nose pressed up underneath Charles’ ear. Such a terrible, terrible idea. This pretense of safety and comfort is dangerous and he knows he should wrench himself away before this goes any further, before Erik gets any ideas about what their relationship is becoming. Before his own treacherous heart gets any ideas.

But he doesn’t pull away. It’s been so long since he’s been so warmly wrapped up in another person, since he’s gone to sleep feeling as secure as he does now. Surely it won’t hurt them horribly if he indulges now. Just for tonight.

“We should be careful not to sleep in too long,” he says quietly, mostly just to say something into the silence that’s fallen now that they’ve made themselves comfortable.

“I’ll wake you,” Erik replies.

Charles tells himself that was not a kiss Erik just pressed sleepily to his neck. He is not in love with Erik and Erik is not in love with him. They are friends and survivors together. That is all.

But he’s never been too good at lying to himself, and he knows it.

 

*

 

In the morning Charles wakes to discover that he’s rolled over in the night so that he and Erik are pressed together chest-to-chest, one of Erik’s legs slid between his own while the other is slung over Charles haphazardly, slotting their bodies together perfectly. Erik’s got an arm around him too, draped down Charles’ flank and Charles realizes that he’s using Erik’s other arm as a pillow, the cushion under his head not the pillow but Erik’s biceps instead.

They’re wrapped together tightly, as if they’d both slept with the subconscious fear of the other somehow being wrenched away. The thought makes Charles’ heart ache as he tips his head up slightly to study Erik’s face. Despite his promise to wake Charles, Erik is still asleep, his face slack and unlined as he breathes slowly in and out. He looks younger, less guarded and more open, years wiped clean from his face.

Charles thinks he should feel trapped, smothered by how closely they’re wound and suffocated by the implications. Perhaps a month ago, he would’ve. But right now, loose and relaxed in Erik’s hold, warmed by his body heat as he studies Erik’s face in the starlight, Charles only feels well-rested and safe.

They’ve been having sex every night for weeks and Charles hadn’t even realized what a toll it’d been taking on him—on them both. The dull-ache soreness has become a constant in Charles’ life no matter how gentle Erik is, but this morning it’s just a little less prominent and he feels surprisingly good, less drained even though they’ve only taken one measly night off.

And that’s just the problem, Charles thinks as he examines the way Erik’s eyelashes swoop down low, because now he actually _wants_ to have sex with Erik.

That line of thought is dangerous and Charles cuts it off before it can begin to spiral outwards. He can’t afford this right now. He and Erik will continue to have sex because they have to, no feelings other than to help bring each other off without hurting one another involved. It’s all they can do. He knows this.

He’s saved from being left alone to brood further by Erik shifting, muscles going from their liquid relaxed state to solid and tense, eyes sliding open to meet Charles’ gaze instantly. They soften by the familiar degree or two when he sees Charles looking back at him, and Charles feels him relax a little again, body no longer prepped for a fight.

“Hi,” Charles says softly, his voice a little raspy from disuse.

“Hi,” Erik answers, a low rumble that Charles feels in his chest. He stretches once, slow and languid, Charles very aware of certain parts of Erik brushing against certain parts of his own, and then he loosens again. It’s like being in bed with a large jungle cat; the cat has just yawned, flicking its tail idly, giving off the appearance of being tamed for now. “Sleep well?”

“Very,” Charles admits. Neither one of them has made any motions towards pulling away. Casting about for a random subject to keep them from lapsing into any kind of silence, he adds, “I still can’t feel my telepathy, though.”

Erik makes a small considering noise, shifting the arm that’s thrown across Charles’ side. He slides it up to rest along Charles’ shoulder so his hand can reach the side of Charles’ face, stroking lightly at his temple along his hairline. “Not surprising, unfortunately. It does take awhile for the drug to wear off.”

The soft, deft touch is almost enough to make Charles want to close his eyes and allow himself to be lulled back to sleep. He keeps them open, holding Erik’s gaze and suddenly wishing that they had a little more light, so he could see the complex swirl of color in Erik’s eyes. He frowns, however, at Erik’s answer. “You and the other inmates were all on the inhibitor drug for years before you overtook this ship. You can’t have been free from your collars longer than a few hours before making your move, but you were all at full capacity when you did.”

“There’s an antidote for the drug,” Erik explains, “and by law they have to keep it on hand wherever the drug is being used. When he snatched Briscoe to get the codes for the collars, Azazel also looted all of the antidote from the medbay.”

“Is there any left?” Charles asks, even though he can already guess the answer.

Erik shakes his head. “No. With so many of us, it was all used up. There’s none left on the ship.”

Charles bites his lower lip to mask his frustration. There’s no way he’ll ever be able to not wear the collar long enough for his telepathy to come back while they’re still on the Serenity. But while they’re on the subject… “I have a confession.”

Erik cocks an eyebrow.

“When you took me to get my clothes and things, ages ago,” Charles says, a little nervous despite knowing that chances are Erik won’t be mad, “I also brought my razor. You remember I told you that I liked using the old fashioned kind, with actual blades?” When Erik dips his chin in a nod, Charles continues in a rush, “I filed down the blades and I’ve been using it to block the needle from administering the dose when I can. Or at least I was back before you started taking the collar off me.”

“So _that’s_ why you were carrying it around,” Erik muses. At Charles’ wary look, he elaborates, “I knew you somehow had gotten ahold of a razor blade. I could feel it in your pocket. But it was puzzling me, because I could also feel that the edges were dull. I thought that maybe you liked carrying it around because it made you feel safer, to have some kind of weapon on hand, but I couldn’t figure out why you’d dulled the edges.”

“And here I was thinking that I’d been so subtle, and that you hadn’t noticed,” Charles sighs. “Why’d you let me keep it?”

“Like I said, I thought it made you feel safer,” Erik says, serious as he peers into Charles’ eyes intently in the starlight, “and I didn’t want to take that feeling away from you.”

Charles does close his eyes at that, if only to hide the way his heart lurches, pounding painfully hard in his chest, and keep Erik from somehow reading an echo of his feelings in his expression.

He draws in a breath that might be a little too ragged because Erik asks, “Charles?”

“I’m fine,” Charles answers, blinking his eyes back open and taking another breath that’s steadier. He’s not fine, not at all, but what other choice does he have? “Do you think I could get away with continuing to block the needle while I have to have the collar on? I was never very successful before because I didn’t want you to know, but now that you do…”

Erik considers. “Believe me when I say that I’d like for you to regain your powers too,” he answers slowly, “but if any of the other inmates see you trying to block the needle…” He smiles humorlessly. “We’re no strangers to attempting to skip doses. They’ll all see right through any kind of casual just-trying-to-scratch-the-back-of-my-neck motions.”

“So I’m stuck.” He isn’t quite able to keep the frustration out of his voice this time, gritting his teeth and mentally slamming against the icy veil that still stands between him and his telepathy. He’s so _tired_ of being powerless, and to have it hovering just out of his reach is beyond disheartening.

“A few more weeks,” Erik promises him, still brushing Charles’ temple gently. “Just a few more weeks until we’re free from all of this.”

 _And then what?_ Charles wants to ask him, but the words lodge themselves somewhere in his throat. It’s still too far away. He doesn’t want to start speculating now what will become of him and Erik once they’re free from Shaw’s tyranny—if they even succeed. Charles wants even less to get his hopes up only to have them dashed by the large possibility of failure.

“How will Logan’s friend know when we’re ready?” Charles asks instead. “How does he even know Logan is breaking out of jail?”

“Logan got a message off to him on the night of our breakout, during the chaos of the rioting and before Shaw shut down all of the communication lines,” Erik answers. Charles tries not to feel too bitter about an inmate managing to contact an unknown party while none of the crewmembers had been able to send out an SOS to IF Command. “Obviously we didn’t have enough time to wait for a reply or confirmation, but Logan says his friend isn’t one for replying anyway. But Logan swears up and down that his friend will be willing to help and will be waiting once we get closer to the Gulesson.”

Charles’ brow furrows. “That still doesn’t explain how his friend will know exactly when we make our escape, and there’s only so long we can survive adrift in an e-pod.”

“That’s where you come in,” Erik says with a small, brief smile, “along with piloting the e-pod for us, we also need you to send out a message from the bridge to Logan’s friend once the Serenity is in a good position. At that point Logan will give us the frequency to use, and I’ll take care of anyone on the bridge so you can send the message out.”

“It’ll be kind of obvious if you knock everyone out,” Charles says, “Shaw will be suspicious.”

“At that point we’ll be getting off the ship anyway,” Erik says grimly, “so by the time Shaw finds out, we’ll be long gone.”

“Hopefully,” Charles says pointedly.

“Hopefully,” Erik agrees. “There’s a lot that can go wrong. But it’s worth the risk, to get out of here.”

“Yes,” Charles says, and he doesn’t have to fake his vehemence. He has to get off this ship or die trying. He knows he can hang on until the Gulesson, but after the Serenity refuels, and Shaw points her towards the deep space coordinates he had Charles input to her navigation systems at the start of all this, Charles knows that the last of even his own hope will dry up. He can’t stand the thought of remaining on the ship with that monster for any longer, so it’s do or die. He thinks he can understand now what drove Erik to giving Shaw a point of vulnerability by picking out a pilot as bedwarmer: anything to get off this ship and away to freedom.

“I will get you home, Charles,” Erik says, quiet but fierce, nothing but utter conviction backing his words, “and you’ll see your sister again and get to hold her baby. I swear it.”

Charles swallows, unable to answer because it’s still too painful to think about. "We should shower," is all he says instead, slowly pulling away from Erik at first and untangling their limbs and bodies. Erik lets him go, watching as Charles slips out from the warmth of the covers and slides off the edge of the bed to his feet, shivering in the cold air.

"I’m fine with the one I took last night since we didn’t do anything," Erik says when Charles turns back around to face him, rolling over onto his back with a quiet sigh to face the ceiling. "You go ahead.”

"No," Charles says, leaning down over the bed and reaching out to take Erik's hand, giving it a gentle tug. "Come with me."

Erik's head snaps sideways, looking up at him in surprise. "Charles…"

"I'm telling you yes," Charles says, and he knows it's terribly self-indulgent and probably the worst idea he could possibly be having right now, but he wants it. He wants the comfort of taking a shower with Erik, of being able to pretend that they have all the time in the world beneath the hot spray, that they're not trapped here with a madman who is still under the impression that Erik is raping him every night. "Please."

"Whatever you'd like, Charles," Erik says at long last, eyes as bright as the stars out the window, and allows himself to be pulled up to his feet and led into the bathroom.

They have to turn the light on in here in order to avoid stepping all over each other in the pitch dark, but it's a short affair for them both to strip down and slip into the narrow stall together under the hot jet of water. Steam gathers quickly and it's awkward at first, in such a cramped space, but then Erik reaches over for the shampoo and starts to lather Charles' hair up, his fingers sinfully good as he massages Charles' scalp, and after that Charles forgets all about the initial awkwardness and focuses instead on the intimacy.

Only one of them can truly fit under the spray of water at a time, so they switch places often, pressing up against each other as they slide past one another in long drags of warm, wet skin slick with soap. Charles gets up on his toes to lather Erik's hair with the shampoo after he's rinsed his own hair out, until Erik merely drops his forehead down to rest against Charles' shoulder, his arms coming up to wrap around Charles' back and holding him loosely while Charles finishes soaping his hair. His hands seem unable to remain still, tracing up and down Charles' back gently, touching him everywhere like he's committing every last inch of Charles' skin to memory.

"Time to switch," Charles murmurs, and they do, rotating around in the stall so Erik can duck his head under the water to wash the shampoo away, long rivers of it running down his shoulders and chest.

Charles is hot all over from the water and the steam and the way Erik's hands feel on his body when he picks up the bar of soap sitting in the alcove at waist height and starts lathering him up, slipping and sliding the bar across Charles' shoulders and down the front of his chest and along his sides. Charles is hard, and he knows that Erik is too without looking, but neither of them say anything or do anything about it. He just lets Erik touch him, resting his hands up on Erik's shoulders so Erik can reach back around him again with the soap bar and slide it between his shoulder blades and down along his spine.

Erik's hands are warm, gentle where they pass over the worst of Charles' bruises and applying just the right amount of pressure everywhere else, his calluses dragging against Charles' skin in a perfect massage as he kneads at Charles' muscles until Charles feels he could melt right down through the drain at their feet. Erik puts the soap back down in the alcove and helps steer Charles back around under the water, continuing his massage and letting the water wash the soap away, leaving Charles refreshed and clean.

He's so relaxed he could almost fall asleep right here on his feet, but Charles wants to return the favor too, reaching over to pick up the soap bar only to have it slip right up out of his fingers and drop to the floor with a loud thunk.

"You know what they say about dropping the soap in prison showers," Erik says, amused, and Charles has to shove at him.

"That was awful," he says, but neither of them make any move towards bending down to pick up the bar of soap at their feet. "Erik," he says after a moment, quiet beneath the spray of water.

"Whatever you'd like, Charles," Erik repeats, leaning in to press their bodies close, and it's only natural for Charles to tilt his head back and then they're kissing under the hot water, slow and sensual as Charles parts his lips to suck on Erik's tongue when it slips forward to taste him.

His back hits the cool tiles of the stall wall and he shivers once but quickly forgets about the cold as Erik's hot body presses all along his front, sealing them together as their kiss deepens and grows more frantic, his hips jerking helplessly when their cocks brush with a single, electrifying jolt.

One of Erik's hands rests along his jaw to keep Charles' head tilted up into the kiss so Charles snatches his other hand, bringing it down between them where his legs are spread so Erik's long fingers brush against his hole. Charles' entire body tingles with pleasure and aches for more.

"Slick," Erik pulls back long enough from their kiss to gasp out, even as he starts to trace maddening circles around the little pucker of muscle.

"Conditioner," Charles answers, fisting his other hand in the back of Erik's hair to yank him down again to press their lips together. They have to break apart again when Erik is forced to lean over to grasp at the bottle that sits up on higher shelf under the showerhead, and when he returns Charles gently directs him down to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. "Do what Shaw wants," he says, "but fuck me how you want."

"I want it how you want it," Erik says against his skin, squeezing out a large dollop of conditioner onto his fingers before his hand slips down between Charles' legs again and he slowly starts to push a single finger inside.

Charles tilts his head back against the tile, gasping up at the ceiling. "Like this for now."

Erik obeys, sucking and biting along the side of Charles' neck while carefully working Charles open with his fingers, sliding in a second once Charles gives him the okay. The conditioner isn't as smooth as regular lube but it helps well enough, and Charles' legs are trembling by the time Erik has begun to scissor him, his quiet gasps for breath near-continuous as Erik kisses deftly along the bruises from Azazel's tail on his throat, the small noises loud in the different acoustics of the bathroom. Erik is hot and hard where Charles can feel his cock pressed up against his thigh, but he makes no motions towards moving this along, staying at exactly the pace Charles has chosen.

He'd continue until Charles got off from just this, Charles thinks as white-hot sparks of pleasure shoot up his spine and make him jerk forward off the wall as Erik presses his fingers up against his prostate. All Erik cares about right now is making Charles feel good, in the way that Charles wants.

"Stop," Charles chokes out when it becomes a bit too much, shuddering where he's pinned between Erik's body and the shower wall.

Erik pulls back immediately, fingers sliding out of Charles' ass, gentle even in haste, and withdrawing from where he'd been setting his teeth into Charles' shoulder. "You alright?" he asks, somehow managing to sound calm and steady despite the wrecked look on his face, gazing down at Charles with naked need. Even so, Charles has no doubt that if he asked Erik to get out of the shower right now, Erik would comply without hesitation.

And that's why Charles nods, but turns around to plaster his front against the wall, the tiles warmer now thanks to his body heat, and leaves his backside exposed to Erik. "Fuck me like this. I'm prepped enough."

Erik doesn't ask if he's sure—he never does, and Charles is glad that at least someone here isn't second-guessing him. He merely presses himself up against Charles' back, all heat and comforting, grounding weight as he pushes Charles further up against the wall. His arms snake beneath Charles' armpits to help hold him up, his hands sliding up to grasp Charles' where they're folded up between Charles' chest and the wet tiles. And then comes his cock, a large, blunt pressure at Charles' hole that Charles' body resists at first, like it always does, before his muscles give way and Erik slides up into him in one smooth thrust that drags moans out of both of them.

"Good?" Erik asks him, right in his ear, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the water.

"Good," Charles answers breathlessly, split open wide on Erik's cock but it's a familiar sensation now, and it doesn't take him long to adjust. "Move."

Erik rolls his hips up, tentative at first, but when Charles growls at him he picks up speed, snapping his hips forward so harshly that Charles is actually lifted up off the ground with each thrust. For a moment it's hard to breathe, hot steam billowing around them and even though the water spray isn't falling directly on his face in this position Charles still feels like he's drowning, toes curling as every ruthless forward fuck of Erik's cock up into his ass sends lightning crackling through him.

They're both breathing heavily, and the panting is obscene over the sounds of the water and the slap of skin as Erik fucks him against the shower wall, taking him from behind and making him feel every last inch of his long cock. Charles tilts his head back onto Erik's shoulder and lets Erik bear all of his weight, each of Erik's thrusts serving to jerk his own leaking cock against the smooth wall tiles, his hands squeezing Erik's tightly as he moans.

The forward-backward-forward-backward plunge of Erik's cock in and out of his ass soon leaves Charles breathless, no longer even able to pant as he struggles for breath. He's close now, tensed and coiled like a spring, but Erik is still working himself up to it, pounding up into Charles like he's starving for it and can't get enough. Charles loves the roughness after so many weeks of Erik being so careful and gentle with him, and he needs it, needs Erik to fuck him long and hard or otherwise he thinks he'll lose his mind.

"Come on," Charles grits out, "come on, Erik, _fuck_ me—"

Erik's hips move like a piston, letting out a loud moan against Charles' neck as he bounces Charles on his cock, slamming his hips forward. His arms squeeze in against Charles' sides to keep him from sliding off, and Charles is shaking, body drawing up tight and tense as he teeters on the edge of release, trembling as he's almost there and delirious with want for still more.

He comes first with a loud cry, white come splattering all across the wall in front of him and going utterly limp and boneless in Erik's grasp. Erik fucks him through it, smearing him against his own come and never letting up on his brutal pace, setting his teeth into the tendon of Charles' neck and biting down with a low growl.

Charles can't help the whimper that escapes him when Erik finally comes, thrusting his cock up deep into Charles' ass one last time with a burst of wet heat, his moan echoing loudly in the bathroom. Erik hasn't hurt him—the opposite, in fact; it just feels so good that now it's too much, Charles' legs shaking as Erik gently lowers him back down to where his feet rest flat on the shower floor again, knees nearly buckling when Erik pulls out of him. But Erik keeps his arms around Charles, firm and steadying, and after a moment, when he doesn’t feel as wobbly as a newborn sehlat, he pushes Erik aside so they can wash themselves clean again.

Erik quirks a small smile as he retrieves the soap and sets it back on the alcove. They spend a few more minutes underneath the hot water until their fingers begin to prune and then they step out into the cool air outside and towel themselves off. Charles stands for a moment in front of the mirror and can’t find any new bruises on himself, even with how fiercely they’d fucked in the shower. The fact pleases him: that one was for them, not for Shaw, and Shaw will never know it.

“I want you to look over some schematics with me,” Erik says as they exit the bathroom together. His hand trails along Charles’ side absently, maintaining contact between them even though it’s a mere shadow of the intimacy they’ve just shared. “I understand most of the mechanics and engineering side of things, but you’ll probably have a better grasp of the more technical aspects of the e-pod’s console and piloting system.”

Charles grabs one of the chairs around the table and follows him over to the holoscreen. “Modifying the e-pod’s long-range travel capability probably shouldn’t change the piloting interface too much, but it’d be good to see exactly what you’re doing to the engines and jump drives so I can gauge how far I can push the pod.”

“You’ll have to ask Darwin for specifics, but I can point you through some of the basics we’ve been working on.” Powering up the holoscreen, Erik settles in his usual seat and enters the login information, carelessly enough that Charles sees his password. No, not carelessly—trustingly.

He can’t fathom how a man like Erik ended up at KG. He can understand how a man like Erik could _survive_ at KG, but how could Erik, who has been unreasonably kind to him after their initially-volatile beginnings, willfully commit a heinous enough crime to land himself in a maximum-security prison for years on end? As far as Charles has seen, Erik has several faults but a predisposition for cruelty and unnecessary violence isn’t one of them.

Erik catches him staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“I was just wondering,” Charles replies, eyes tracing the old white scar that cuts across Erik’s hairline. Erik’s body is full of scars, small and large. The marks of prison life. “You said you killed people. That’s why you were in KG.”

Erik’s jaw tightens. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Because they deserved it.”

“Why did they deserve it?”

“Why are you asking?”

Charles shrugs. “I want to know.”

Erik fixes him with a narrow-eyed look. “And if I don’t want you to know?”

“Then tell me so and I’ll back off.” At Erik’s skeptical look, Charles huffs. “I respect your space as much as you do mine, you know.”

Erik’s mouth pinches as he looks away. For a long minute, he just pulls up a slew of schematics and data sheets on the screen without answering. Then he says quietly, “Did you ever hear of the Omicron Project?”

Charles stills. “Of course.” It was the biggest scandal to rock the IF in recent memory. No one who has lived through the last ten years could have forgotten it.

“The IF’s elite task force,” Erik spits, his tone full of acid. “The Federation’s greatest defense, its heroes. People worshipped them. They were…they…”

“I know,” Charles says softly. He’d had an Omicron poster in his bedroom when he was a kid. He and Raven had played at being Omicron agents all the time, using holographic dart guns as weapons and running around pretending to be protectors of the galaxy. Charles himself had seriously thought about applying for Omicron when he turned eighteen but then the scandal had broken and that had put an end to those dreams.

“My parents and I, we lived on Halcyon Six,” Erik says, and his eyes are a hundred light-years away now, pain and fury etched into the lines of his face.

“Oh Erik,” Charles breathes, his heart plummeting all the way down into his stomach.

That’s really all Erik needs to say; everyone knows the story of Halcyon Six. It had been a prospective colony with fewer than fifteen thousand people settled among its lush forests and dipping valleys, and IF Settlement Services had predicted a 400% population increase on the planet over the next fifteen years. Charles still remembers the Halcyon Six advertisement posters on the holoscreen bulletins in his school, boasting beautiful pictures of gorgeous landscapes so different from the mechanical, overcrowded cityscapes of Old Earth. To Charles, it had looked like paradise.

Then, around the time when Charles turned fifteen, the posters disappeared. One day all the school holoscreens were showing happy Halcyon Six settlers’ testimonies and the next, they were playing advertisements for the new hoverboard that would have everyone under the age of fifty clamoring. No one had really noticed at first—settlements rose and fell in popularity all the time—but then the truth had come out in bits and pieces, leaked to the Independent Media Alliance by an anonymous informant: something had gone wrong with the Omicron soldiers sent to protect the colony, there had been a massacre of some sort which no one seemed to know anything about, and the IF was trying to cover everything up and they’d killed to do it.

It all read like wild speculation but the seed of doubt and curiosity had been planted, and Federation PR had exploded with messages demanding answers. Eventually it had come out that a cover-up _had_ been engineered, and that a certain General William Stryker had been in charge of a program called Weapon X, in which Omicron soldiers had been dosed with an experimental drug to improve their strength, agility, and general competency. The soldiers deployed to Halcyon Six had been some of the first given the serum, to disastrous results.

Some of the attack’s survivors—when they had finally been released from the camp the IF had been detaining them in, which was a whole other outrage that had received interplanetary attention following the initial horror of learning of the Weapon X Project—said the soldiers had opened fire. Others had alleged that the Omicrons hadn’t even needed weapons; they’d torn people apart with their bare hands. Whatever details were muddled, one fact wasn’t: nearly thirty percent of the colony had been decimated in the massacre, with those injured numbering in the thousands.

Dozens of IF officers had been tried. Scientists involved in the project were jailed. Survivors were welcomed, honored, and given a yearly stipend from the government in a sort of belated apology. And yet, some of the largest contributors to the project were never punished. Stryker had gone on trial but he’d been cunning: there was no evidence directly connecting him to the development of the Weapon X serum, and he couldn’t be convicted on rumor. Obadiah Stane, Omicron’s weapons developer and long believed to be the lead researcher for the Weapon X Project, vanished without a trace, taking his vast fortune with him.

The injustice of it stung, but not for long. Events on Halcyon Six were so far removed from Old Earth. Old Earth’s senators and officials had argued for months over the scope of the IF’s military, but before long, they had fallen back to squabbling over taxes and retirement benefits. Halcyon Six and its tragedy had been forgotten.

Charles hadn’t paid the whole affair too much attention because no one around him had, and it wasn’t until he’d taken Federation History at the Academy that he’d really delved into the topic. He can’t fathom what Erik’s been through, can’t even find a word to say.

“Don’t,” Erik says tightly, his knuckles white as he clenches his hands into fists. “I don’t want your pity. I just want you to know that when I say those men deserved it, I mean it.”

“Don’t tell me…the assassination attempt in the Senate Square on General Stryker seven years ago…” There had been rumors of it but nothing concrete. Charles had been at the Academy at the time, too far away to glean any real details. But it fits neatly in with Erik’s timeline: six years at KG…

The holoscreen console creaks. Charles watches with wide eyes as it warps in the middle, metal that shouldn’t be malleable melting like molten lava under Erik’s hand. “I had him,” Erik says, his breath suddenly coming shallowly. There’s a hatred in his eyes that Charles hasn’t seen before. “I was so close. Another minute and I would have—I could have—” His fists shake. It’s as close as Charles has ever seen him to utterly losing control. “God, Charles, you don’t know how close I was. _Seconds_ away. Only seconds.”

“I’m…” Charles has to stop to clear his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Erik’s gaze swings over to him, dark and angry. “I said I didn’t want—”

“My pity, yes, I know. I just…” He shakes his head helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

Erik glares at him for another long moment before a sigh rattles out of him, and his shoulders slump. “I suppose that’s one thing Shaw and I have in common: we both hate the Federation.”

“The Federation isn’t all evil,” Charles dares to say. He doesn’t like the thought of Erik agreeing with Shaw on anything, or thinking that he’s similar to Shaw in any way. “The birth of the IF brought a lot of peace and unity to the galaxy. It doesn’t erase their crimes,” he amends quickly when Erik glances over at him again, “not at all, but you can’t judge the entirety of it by one small sect.”

“Charles,” Erik says wearily, looking at him like he’s a lifeline, “as far as I’m concerned the only good thing to ever come out of the IF is you.”

“Don’t,” Charles says, eyes wide even though his heart is doing something funny in his chest, “don’t say that.”

“I’m sorry,” Erik says, and though he doesn’t elaborate for what, Charles already knows. Erik looks away, back to the half-melted holoscreen that he fixes with an absent flick of his fingers in the matter of a second. “It’s already past midday. I should go down to the mess and grab us some lunch. We can look at the specs when I get back.”

“Alright,” Charles agrees with a small nod. Lunch sounds good; he’s hungry after all the energy spent in the shower, even though it’s a little depressing how little it takes to get him tired these days. They both rise with a scrape of their chairs, standing close together in front of the holoscreen.

Erik lifts a hand and calls the collar back over to his palm from where it sits over on the tabletop. Charles always puts it back on whenever Erik leaves the room, just in case Azazel or anyone else makes another surprise visit; the consequences of Charles being discovered without the collar on don’t bear thinking about.

“Ready?” Erik asks him, weighing the collar in his hand with dislike.

“No,” Charles answers honestly, but they have no choice. He holds still while Erik fits the dreaded cold metal back around his throat, unable to hold back a shiver of disgust at the metallic clicking of the locks. The needle automatically slides out of the back compartment, and Charles winces at the sharp prick on his skin as the dose is administered and what little trickles he could feel of his telepathy vanish completely once more.

“Only a few more weeks,” Erik says quietly when Charles closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, pushing the sudden claustrophobic feeling down and away.

“I can’t decide if it makes it worse, to keep taking the collar on and off,” Charles says wearily, opening his eyes once he no longer feels like he’s about to choke, “but then I think of not taking it off and…”

Erik cups Charles’ cheek, his hand warm. “We’re almost there. As soon as we’re off this ship we can throw that thing out an airlock.”

Charles gives a shaky laugh despite himself. “Sounds like a good way to celebrate to me.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Erik promises, starting to lean in little by little and god, Charles _knows_ they might as well be playing with fire, “just hang in there till then.”

“I can do that,” Charles answers, and leans up the rest of the way to a kiss, their mouths sliding softly together. He lifts his arms to wrap them up around Erik’s neck and Erik’s other hand moves to press lightly against the small of Charles’ back, pressing their bodies together while their mouths move against one another.

Charles hates that he wants this so badly when he knows he shouldn’t, hates that he even has to worry about whether or not he should want this, want Erik, but all of that is washed away by how much he—how much he cares for Erik. He doesn’t dare think any further about deeper feelings again, letting himself get lost in their kiss and the way Erik’s tongue slides against his, one of them, he doesn’t even know who, giving a quiet sigh.

A loud _crack_ makes Charles flinch back, startled, and then he freezes in horror at the cloud of black smoke that quickly clears away in the center of the room to reveal Azazel and Shaw.

“My, my,” Shaw says, grinning widely at them with the same manner of a cat that’s finally cornered a mouse, “what _do_ we have here?”

Charles’ mind goes blank with panic. Shaw’s seen them kissing. There’s no way to deny what they were just doing; his arms are still up around Erik’s neck and Erik still holds him pressed close against his front. Shaw’s seen them kissing.

Shaw _knows_.

“Get the fuck out of my quarters,” Erik snarls, his entire body one long line of tension. His grip on Charles has tightened, nearly crushing Charles up against his chest, and Charles is too frozen to protest or pull away.

“Kissing,” Shaw says, shaking his head, a father disappointed in his son’s school marks. “Erik, you know better than this. You don’t kiss your fucktoy. You fuck him. That’s all he is, just a warm, wet hole to fuck. I should have realized that your gentle tendencies would rear their ugly head.”

“It’s none of your business what I do with him,” Erik snaps, but Charles can feel him quivering—or maybe they both are. “He’s mine to do with what I—”

“It’s every bit my business,” Shaw says silkily, and while he hasn’t moved at all, hasn’t even taken a single step towards them from where he stands in the center of their room, Charles still feels crowded, like there’s no escape. And there _isn’t_. “Do you know what the boys would do to you if they found out you liked to kiss your little pilot? Do you know how they’d react if they discovered you’re sweet on him?”

Charles shivers, terror creeping up his spine at how Shaw and Azazel are both looking at him, gazes alight with interest. He’s not exactly sure what Shaw’s getting at, but he knows it’s not going to bode well for either him or Erik. His instincts are torn between telling him to fight and telling him to run. But there’s nowhere to run to.

“He’s mine,” Erik repeats flatly. “It shouldn’t matter to anyone what I do with him.”

Shaw clicks his tongue in disapproval. “My dear boy, do you know what happens when you’re kind to your toys? They start to get ideas. And do you know what happens when they get ideas? Well then they might have to be put down or they’ll cause trouble.”

“You touch him,” Erik snarls, his grip on Charles so tight that it’s cutting off circulation in his arms, “and I’ll kill you.”

Charles grabs Erik’s wrist and squeezes, hard. Shaw’s whole game rests on riling them up and they can’t fall for it. They can’t give him the satisfaction.

Shaw’s eyes glint in the half-lighting of the room. “You see what he’s already done to you, Erik? He’s turned you against me. I can’t have that.”

Erik trembles with fury but says nothing, which is probably their wisest option. Erik’s already tipped his hand and now all they can do is try to limit the damage. Charles isn’t sure if he should press in closer to Erik to give him support or draw away. Either option sounds dangerous so he just freezes where he is, trying not to even breathe.

“What do you think should be done?” Shaw asks, glancing at his companion.

Azazel’s tail curls lazily behind him. “Weak men don’t get to keep their toys. That is the way things are.”

“That is the way things are,” Shaw agrees. “Well, Erik? You know the rules.”

The entire room seems to creak, metal bending toward Erik’s pull. “You won’t take him from me. You promised I could have him.”

“I promised you could have him when I thought you were strong enough to handle him, but time has proven me wrong.” One dark eyebrow arches. “But I’ll give you a chance to save yourself now, Erik. Put him in his place.”

Without hesitation Erik shoves Charles’ shoulder down, his fingers digging in hard enough for Charles to hiss in surprise. But he kneels readily, head bowed at Erik’s feet. His heart slams against his chest, hard enough to make it difficult to breathe. They’re going to be alright. He just needs to play along and they’ll be alright.

“Is that the extent of your discipline?” Shaw mocks. “Look how he’s corrupted you. Punish him for it!”

Erik’s boot catches him in the side and he goes sprawling across the floor. The blow wasn’t very painful but it’s enough to knock the breath out of Charles, who lies panting and dazed for a moment on the floor. _Erik kicked him._ The thought is accompanied by a sharp sting of betrayal, even though he knows Erik is playing to his audience, just as Charles has to. He holds his ribs and wheezes out a breath, pretending it hurts more than it does.

“Are you satisfied?” Erik asks coldly.

“Oh come now, Erik, he’s not afraid of you. How do you expect to get anywhere with him if he doesn’t respect your word?” Shaw takes one step toward Charles, who flinches back violently. Laughing, Shaw says, “See? That is the look of a pet beaten into submission. Surely you can manage that, Erik.”

“I like him the way he is,” Erik growls. “If I lay a hand on him, it will be by my choice.”

“Oh my little boy, you are so far gone on him! What you need is distance, before he gets any further into your head. I told you telepaths were dangerous, even with the collar on.”

He moves toward Charles, but Erik steps into his way. “Get out of my quarters.”

“Don’t raise your voice with me, _boy_.”

“Get _out!”_ Erik snarls, shoving both hands against Shaw’s chest. But it’s Erik who stumbles back a pace, thrown off-balance by the force of his own push. Then, quicker than the eye can follow, Shaw backhands him across the face, hard enough to send Erik crumpling to the floor.

Charles’ body moves on its own, propelling him to Erik’s side in an instant. “Erik!”  

He seems alright, if a little stunned by the blow. Already he’s trying to get up again, his face contorted in rage. Charles grabs his arm to steady him but Shaw reaches down and tears Erik out of his grasp without any difficulty.

“You’re weak,” Shaw spits contemptuously, dangling Erik by the collar of his shirt as if he weighs no more than a misbehaving puppy. “You always have been. You had such potential, Erik, but you have no will. I’m disappointed in you.”

The holoscreen console crumples with a screech of metal and leaps for Shaw. It wraps around Shaw’s form and constricts around him, but Shaw tears it away with his free hand as easily as one might brush away cobwebs. Erik gasps in Shaw’s hold, his face turning red.

Charles tackles him, or tries to. He catches Shaw enough by surprise to make the man stagger a step but that’s as far as he gets before Shaw gives him a puzzled look of amusement and kicks him away. Charles’ whole ribcage seems to cave in with the strike and for a long moment as he lies on the ground, he can’t draw in a breath, can’t even make his throat work. He’s sure Shaw’s collapsed both his lungs with that one kick, or maybe stopped his heart, but after an agonizing few seconds, he manages to inhale painfully, the breath sounding thin and reedy through his mouth.

“I’ll be taking our dear lieutenant for now,” Shaw says. “When you think you’ll be able to handle him—and _prove_ it to me—then you can come get him.”

Erik thrashes in his grip. “Don’t touch him, you bastard. If you fucking touch him I’ll _kill_ you, I _fucking_ swear—”

“Such impertinence.” Shaw throws him to the ground, and Charles flinches to see the floor cave slightly under Erik’s weight. Surely the impact knocked Erik unconscious—but no, Erik’s moving, his arms twitching with the effort to get up, and Charles wants to tell him to just stay down, for god’s sake, Erik, please just stay down—

“He’s _mine_ ,” Erik rasps, blood dripping from his mouth. “You can’t have him, he’s _mine._ ”

Shaw considers him for a moment. Then he puts his boot on Erik’s shoulder and shoves him over so that he’s sprawled on his back. “You know, Erik, I think I’ve tired of you. You’ve been quite entertaining but I’m coming to realize you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

He raises his boot and presses it down on Erik’s throat, hard enough that Charles hears Erik choke. He’s going to kill him. _He’s going to kill Erik._

“Stop it!” Charles shouts, gathering his strength and hurling himself at Shaw again. Azazel catches him this time, pinning his arms behind him as that deadly tail caresses his neck, a silent threat. Everything in Charles goes still; even his heart seems to freeze in his chest, too terrified to beat. But not terrified for himself—he’s deathly afraid for Erik, who’s gasping for air on the ground, too weak to even grab at Shaw’s foot.  

“Stop!” he shouts again, starting to struggle against Azazel’s arms, uncaring when the tip of that deadly tail nicks his throat. “Shaw, you don’t want to do this! You’re going to regret it!”

At that, Shaw looks over at him, one eyebrow raised. His boot doesn’t lift but it ceases pressing. “Regret it? Enlighten me, Lieutenant.”

“If you kill him, it’ll be over! You said—” Oh god what had he _said_. “You told me you like to break things. You like to see them break. You haven’t broken Erik yet, don’t you see? He’s still defiant. He’d still fight you if he could, can’t you see? If he dies now, he’ll _win_ , and you don’t want that. You don’t want to let him win, do you? You don’t want to lose!”

Oh he’s speaking nonsense, he’s spouting words that mean nothing to anyone, and he knows Shaw can hear his desperation bleeding everywhere, knows Shaw knows exactly why Charles is pleading for Erik’s life, but he has absolutely nothing else to offer. He feels like he’s choking, too, fear stealing every breath he tries to draw.

“Interesting logic,” Shaw says, tilting his head. “Exactly something I’d want to hear. But I don’t like it when people try to manipulate me, Lieutenant.”

When he digs his boot in harder, Erik makes a tiny sound of agony, and Charles breaks, as easily as that. All semblance of reason flies from his mind and he just begs, he _begs,_ “Please, whatever you want, I’ll give it to you, I swear. Just let him go, let him live!”

Shaw is amused now, his smirk sharp enough to cut diamond. "Oh? I was under the impression that I already have everything I want, Lieutenant. So tell me, what more is there?"

It’s clear what he’s insinuating and Charles won't—not that, _never_ that, even with the way Shaw is looking at him expectantly, already grinning in triumph. He wants Charles to say it, to ask Shaw to fuck him in exchange for Erik's life, but Charles won't give him that satisfaction. He _can’t._ Only—what else is there to give?

Humiliation, Charles realizes suddenly in a bolt of blessed, blessed clarity. That's what this is all about. Humiliation. He's wanted to humiliate Erik from the start of this entire game, has wanted Erik made to heel at his side. _That’s_ what Shaw wants. Erik, and Charles too: beaten down and humiliated until all the defiance is quenched from him. From them both.

Charles swallows. "If you let him live, he'll be indebted to you for life. And you can—" he stumbles on the words, unused to bargaining in such a base manner, but pushes on nevertheless, “—you can watch him fuck me. That show you've always wanted, you can have it. Erik will be yours to order around, after all. You can make him do whatever you want to me, and you'll be able to watch. We won't have a choice."

Every word tastes like ash, but his response earns Shaw’s delighted smile. Still, he says, “But what if I wanted you for myself, Lieutenant?”

“Then—” Oh just say it, say it quickly. Anything Shaw wants to hear, anything for Erik. “Then you can—you can—after—but what do you think Erik will hate more, watching me get hurt or hurting me himself?” He hates this so much, hates laying Erik’s emotions bare for Shaw to pick at. But he forces himself to spit out the words, each one cutting his mouth like glass. “Which one do you think will break him?”

Shaw looks at him, lips pursed. God, he’s a sick, sick creature, considering them both like he’d consider which shirt to keep and which he doesn’t want anymore. Erik has gone limp underneath him, barely conscious enough to keep his eyes open. Any longer and he’ll pass out, Charles thinks desperately, his entire body aching to run to Erik’s side. Any longer and Erik might die.

Finally, a second later, an eternity later, Shaw removes his boot from Erik’s throat. Erik gasps for air weakly but doesn’t move otherwise. Relief courses through Charles so powerfully his knees buckle, and only Azazel’s hand clamped around his arm keeps him upright. “Erik,” he croaks, straining against Azazel’s grip. “Please, let me see him.”

Smirking, Shaw nods, and Azazel lets him go. Stumbling a step before he gets his feet under him, Charles staggers over to Erik and falls to his knees, pulling Erik toward him. “Erik, can you hear me?” he whispers frantically, cupping Erik’s cheek. “Erik, please—”

Erik’s eyes flicker open, dazed and only half-there. His throat bobs as if he’s trying to speak but no sound comes out except for a pained wheeze. Charles tries to sit him up in hopes of getting his air flowing better, but Erik makes an agonized noise and Charles stops immediately. Broken bones somewhere, Charles thinks, remembering how violently Shaw had slammed Erik into the ground. His shoulder maybe, or his back.

Still clutching at Erik’s shoulder, Charles turns and says as authoritatively as he can manage at the moment, “He needs medical attention. He’s badly hurt and he could die otherwise.”

“And I suppose we don’t want that,” Shaw says. “Azazel, take him to medbay. Tell the good doctor I want Erik getting minimal treatment only to keep him alive. I want him to spend a few days in the bed there. I want him to contemplate what I’m doing to his precious pilot in the meantime.”

Erik’s eyes are wide and pale as they fix on Charles’ face. His hand gropes for Charles and finds Charles’ sleeve, latching onto it with all the strength he has. If Charles had had his telepathy, he’s certain Erik’s mind would be shouting at him not to do this. Not to go.

But Azazel is there and he’s pushing Charles out of Erik’s reach. A _crack_ and Erik’s gone.

“Now, my dear lieutenant,” Shaw says, smiling widely, “it’s just you and me.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All previously tagged warnings still apply, and see the end of chapter notes for more detailed (and spoilery) warnings if necessary.

Initially, when all of this first began and the mutant inmates had newly instated themselves as the ruling class on the Serenity, Charles had believed that he'd been dreaming some kind of horrific nightmare and had wished desperately to wake up. Now he knows better—he's living the nightmare.

Shaw makes it clear right off the bat that he expects total and swift obedience, casually backhanding Charles across the face when Charles takes too long to respond in affirmation, the inhumanly-strengthened blow sending Charles sprawling across the floor. In reality Charles is barely listening, his mind empty with shock at the new upheaval of his life, starting with Erik being terribly injured and separated from Charles, and Charles' own new position as—

"Fetch me a drink, pet," Shaw says from above him, reclined back in his chair at one of the mess hall tables like a king in court, "but I want to see you crawl."

Drawn abruptly out of thoughts about how Erik is doing under Hank's limited care, Charles blanches. "What?"

"You heard me," Shaw says pleasantly. He drops one hand down to tangle in Charles' hair, petting him as he would a dog. In his position where he kneels on the floor beside the chair at Shaw's feet, Charles goes very still, suddenly very aware of how easy it would be for Shaw to dig his fingers in and yank Charles' head sideways fast enough to snap his neck. "Don't make me repeat myself, Lieutenant, it's very tiring. You already know the consequences for displeasing me."

More broken bones for Erik, and as for Charles himself, Shaw has left the implications of his punishment threateningly vague. Charles is happier not knowing.

Charles looks across the mess hall. He hasn't been down here since before the takeover—Erik always made the food runs alone—but it hasn't changed much. There are still several long serving tables for the food near the far right wall, where the swinging double doors to the galley are located. Smaller tables surrounded by chairs are scattered throughout the rest of the room, not many of them occupied right now since it's well past the normal lunch hour.

Shaw is attended by five of his usual cronies, all sitting in various slouched positions around the table waiting for orders. So far they've mostly ignored Charles, which was only a relief up until the point Charles realized that they'd continue to ignore him and anything Shaw does to him unless Shaw tells them otherwise. He sees now why Erik never wanted a place at Shaw's side—Charles wouldn't have the stomach for it either.

But he's condemned Erik to this anyway, with the deal—if it can even be called that—he made with Shaw. Charles doesn't know how much Erik was really able to hear or comprehend while Shaw was choking the life out of him, but just the thought of having to explain what he's promised Shaw to Erik makes Charles feel sick.

"Don't keep me waiting, little one," Shaw says, a warning note entering his voice as he continues to stroke Charles' hair, "I'm parched so just a water will be sufficient."

Still Charles doesn't budge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wonders if Shaw is waiting for Charles to say it.

"Ah, of course," Shaw says with a chuckle after a pause, "how I'd forgotten. You can't go anywhere if I'm still holding onto your leash, can you? Weirman, walk our pilot over to the refreshments and make sure he doesn't make a mess."

Charles' leash is nothing more than a length of cloth Shaw had torn from the sheets back in Charles and Erik's quarters, one end tied in a tight knot around the front of Charles' collar. Shaw has kept the other end looped around his wrist ever since he'd tugged Charles along out of Erik's room and down to the mess hall, but now he unwinds the cloth and hands it over to one of his lackeys, the man with the huge fangs jutting out of his mouth. Weirman climbs to his feet and yanks Charles hard enough to unbalance him, sending him pitching forwards so that he's forced to catch himself with both hands before his face smashes into the floor, and now that Charles has been made the center of attention, everyone at the table laughs.

"Gently, now," Shaw chides, "we're taking good care of him for Erik, aren't we, boys?" Charles doesn't have to look up at him to know he's smirking. "Off you go, Lieutenant."

As much as Charles tries to mask any kind of reaction, his cheeks are burning as he slowly sets off across the mess hall floor, crawling on his hands and knees with Weirman walking beside him holding his leash. The floor is sticky with things Charles doesn't care to examine too closely, left dirty since the inmates' uprising, but he keeps his head down anyways, staring at his hands and unwilling to look up and see just how many people are watching. He remembers to pretend to favor his left hand, which is still supposed to be broken, even though he’s not sure that it even matters anymore.

His knees are already sore by the time they reach the table where cans of water are stacked, but Charles knows better than to complain—besides, his ribs hurt worse from when Shaw had kicked him, every movement making them twinge painfully and his breath draw up short.

A panting dog. That's what Shaw has turned him into. Charles hates the man with a ferocity that scares him a little.

He reaches up to grab one of the cans, holding in his hand and turning around to hobble back towards Shaw's table on three limbs; without being told he knows better than to try rolling the can across the ground in front of him instead. It's another small eternity before he reaches the table again, aching all over, kneeling back down beside Shaw's chair and offering the can up to him while staring blankly at the edge of the table.

"Very good, Lieutenant Xavier," Shaw praises him, accepting both the can from Charles and the end of the leash from Weirman. He yanks Charles up closer with it, winding up the slack so that Charles is forced to plaster himself along Shaw's leg, his chin just above Shaw's knee. "Your form is a little lacking aesthetically, but you and I will have plenty of time to work on that."

Charles doesn't respond, determinedly doesn't react in any way and just stays where he's been put, pressed up against Shaw's leg as if he's begging for table scraps. He thinks he should be hungry, but the thought of eating anything, even nutri paste, makes him feel ill.

For Erik's sake, he can endure this. Shaw thinks he's all but won, but Shaw doesn't know that in a few short weeks Charles and Erik will be long gone from his clutches, safe at last. This is just another hurdle Charles has to jump, another few lesser evils Charles has to choose in order to survive. Shaw won't break him, not while he has his gaze set on the prize Charles has dangled in front of him, a prize that he'll hopefully never receive.

After leaving the mess hall, Charles allowed to walk on his two legs again even though Shaw still leads him by the leash, they go back up to deck two and Charles has half a minute to dread that they're already going back to the bedroom when instead Shaw makes for Huxley's office, where he sets up court again. He makes himself comfortable in the high-backed leather chair behind the heavy desk while his men spread themselves out, taking up posts like they're some kind of bodyguards.

"Oh no, Lieutenant Xavier," Shaw says when Charles moves to kneel down again, "I'm feeling rather chilly in here, aren't you? Lie down across my lap to help preserve a little body heat, there's a good boy."

Charles' natural reaction is to freeze, and wonder if Shaw is truly serious, so Shaw takes that as an invitation to yank him down by the leash, sending Charles sprawling across his widespread legs. He makes a small pained noise when his ribs catch on Shaw's thighs, hanging awkwardly across them like some kind of lumpy blanket, hyperaware of how exposed his back is now. He feels like a child about to receive a spanking for misbehaving.

When Charles tries to shift, Shaw lays one hand down flat on the small of his back, just above the waistband of his pants, and Charles goes absolutely still.

"The spine is such a delicate thing," Shaw tells him conversationally, rubbing his hand in slow, circular motions that from anyone else in any other situation would be soothing. From Shaw, it only serves to remind Charles just how powerless he is. "Just one vertebra snapped and you can't move from the waist down. We're such delicate creatures, even with our enhanced abilities. It's a shame."

Charles flinches when Shaw pushes the back of his shirt up so that his fingers can trace directly over Charles' bare skin. It's awkward and uncomfortable enough to be hanging forward off of Shaw's lap, arms and head dangling uselessly, but now his heart is caught somewhere in the vicinity of his throat with fear.

"Don't worry, Charles," Shaw murmurs, stroking his back, "I'm not going to break your spine. Not today, at least."

Charles shudders and Shaw chuckles. He pulls Charles' shirt back down so that his back is covered again but he leaves his hand beneath the fabric, resting flat against Charles' skin; a constant reminder of the power Shaw holds over him.

"Now then," Shaw says as taps the holoscreen on the desk to access it, "I'm supposed to have a meeting with dear Captain Essex, but I'm afraid you can't be privy to our topics of discussion just yet. We'll have to make do with spending the next hour here instead until it's time for your shift on the bridge."

Charles is already uncomfortable, his mouth hanging open just so he can breathe. He's too afraid to attempt shifting a little more, especially with Shaw's hand on him. The office descends into a loaded, heavy silence, Shaw tapping away at the holoscreen while Charles struggles not to breathe too loudly or let any sounds of pain slip past his lips every time his ribs give a particularly agonizing twinge. His head feels heavy where it hangs low, and it feels like all of his blood is pooling at the top of his skull.

Every so often Shaw taps his finger once on Charles' back to make him flinch, constantly bracing himself for the finger to come down on him with superhuman strength because he doesn't trust Shaw for a second to not hurt him.

"So skittish," Shaw remarks after the third or fourth time, "however did Erik put up with you? Or maybe that's why he was so gentle with you? Little lamb." He shifts his legs beneath Charles slightly, his tone fond. "You'll get no such treatment from me."

Something is pressing against the side of Charles' belly that's closest to Shaw's chest, and Charles goes stiff as a board when he realizes what it is. Shaw is hard in his pants, his cock jutting up against his fly to dig into Charles' side. Charles immediately wants nothing more than to throw himself off of Shaw's lap and drag himself over to the furthest corner of the room; anything to get himself away from Shaw's arousal. He doesn't dare move, however, forced to lie still even as Shaw shifts every so often to rub himself against Charles, teasing himself and getting off on Charles' discomfort if the damp spot beginning to form is any indication.

"I'm not going to fuck you," Shaw murmurs, dragging his fingernails slowly up and down Charles' back to make Charles squirm over his cock. "I'm not even going to make you suck me, even though I know your little mouth is perfect for it, with those red lips of yours. You did so well sucking Erik's cock when we watched in the hallway and I know you'll do just as well for me."

The latter half of the sentence is spoken like a pleasant but pointed threat and Charles squeezes his eyes shut when Shaw thrusts his hips up just a little to rub against him more.

"I'll save it for when Erik is healthy enough to join us, so he can watch me fuck your mouth and hole," Shaw continues, his voice a little rougher now and his hips jerk up continuously, jostling Charles around on his lap as he rubs himself off on Charles, "and I don't want you to build up a tolerance to it. I want Erik to see when I fuck you for the first time, so he can see your reaction—after, of course, I've made him fuck you several different ways. You _were_ right about me, after all. I do love a good show."

Charles whimpers low in the back of his throat when one of Shaw's upward thrusts knocks his ribs and sends sharp, lancing pain shooting through his entire body, white spots dancing across his vision. He would have long since tumbled out of Shaw's lap if it weren't for the hand that Shaw still keeps pressed on his back, holding him down in place. His other hand has dropped down to squeeze Charles' ass, digging his fingers in and gripping him there too to keep Charles from rolling off of him.

The sound only spurs Shaw on. "I knew that you'd make a good fucktoy the moment I saw you," he grunts, rubbing his crotch back and forth on Charles. "One day we'll see if you can take two cocks at once, mine and Erik's. You'd like that, wouldn't you, little cockslut?"

Without warning he shoves Charles off of his lap and Charles has no time to catch himself, hitting the ground hard on his side between the chair and the desk, somehow managing not to crack his head against the wood but letting out a small, sharp cry of pain on impact, ribs jarring excruciatingly. Shaw slams a foot down at the base of Charles' leash, right up near where the knot is tied at the inhibitor collar so Charles has no slack at all, sprawled out awkwardly on his side and unable to pick himself up as Shaw undoes the fly of his pants and pulls his cock out, jacking himself quickly while staring down at Charles.

It doesn't take Shaw much longer to come, spurting off white and sticky come all across Charles' shirt and pants, making sure to splatter him as much as possible. Charles shudders in revulsion, disgust roiling wildly in his stomach and it takes conscious effort not to gag, because if he starts that then he'll start to dry heave. He's half-surprised that Shaw didn't want to come on his face, given how eager he was for Erik to do so, but then Charles realizes: come can eventually be washed off of skin, but as long as Charles is made to wear these clothes, he'll have Shaw's dried spunk all over him.

He does gag a little at that, turning it into a cough and trying not to cry out of shame and angry frustration. A few stray tears leak out from the corners of his eyes anyway, and that only seems to excite Shaw more. Tucking his spent cock away, he crouches by Charles’ side and wipes his thumb gently against the wetness. “Shh, Lieutenant,” he soothes, “you’ll be alright. I’m going to take good care of you. I’ll feed you, clothe you, protect you, as a good master should.” His hand trails to cup Charles’ cheek, and Charles forces himself not to vomit when he smells the semen on his fingers. “You’ll want for nothing when you’re with me.”

Charles doesn’t know what to say to that, except that he’s not going to thank Shaw. His jaw feels wired shut. All he can do is breathe harshly between his teeth, trying desperately not to breathe in through his nose.

Shaw begins to laugh. “The fear in your eyes, Lieutenant. It’s delightful. You really are so much fun. I don’t know why I let Erik keep you for so long. If I’d known you would look so good on a leash, I wouldn’t have let him have you in the first place.”

He removes his boot from the knot of the leash and resituates himself behind the desk, leaving Charles lying on the floor beside the desk. Before long, his attention turns to conversation with one of his men and Charles is all but forgotten, a dog that’s relegated to the back of the mind once it’s provided cursory entertainment. He stares hard at the grains of the wood of the desk, forcing his mind to keep blank. He can’t think of what Shaw might do to him next. He can’t think of Erik lying somewhere in medbay, perhaps still fighting for his life. If he allows his mind to wander there, he thinks he might break entirely and he has to hang on, for Erik, for his friends, for the slim possibility of their escape.

Surely the others know by now what’s happened. Rumors travel faster than orders sometimes on this ship. What must Alex be thinking? Darwin? Are they still working on their escape or have they given it up? No, they’ve gone too far to give up now. But what if they decide to cut their losses and initiate the plan without Erik and Charles? Erik is too injured to move quickly and Charles…under Shaw’s thumb, Charles might as well be encased in a shatterproof cage.

They can’t have left. The e-pod isn’t ready and they don’t have a pilot. Logically, Charles knows this, but he can’t stop the clawing fear that tears up his insides. What if they’re already gone? What if he’s trapped here forever?

No, not forever. He’d kill himself before long, throw himself out an airlock or force Shaw to pummel the life out of him. He can’t survive this much longer, he knows it. They have to get out.

The next hour passes in a haze. He’s not sure how long he spends blinking lethargically at the desk, but the next thing he knows, Shaw is hauling him to his feet by the leash and dragging him toward the door. “Time for your shift, Lieutenant,” he says, shortening the leash by wrapping the end of it around his fist. Charles ends up stumbling nearly on his heels, tripping over himself to keep up. “I trust you’ll behave while I’m gone.”

The bridge is the most welcome sight Charles has ever seen. Here he has a job to do. He has distractions and normalcy and best of all, he’s relatively safe because he’s not expendable. They need someone to fly this ship and Shaw can’t humiliate him or degrade him while he’s doing it. It’s a desperate reprieve, and Charles falls into it like a parched man would fall into water.

“Don’t look so dejected,” Shaw says as Charles all but collapses into the pilot’s chair. “I’ll be back for you very soon, pet.”

The moment the bridge doors close behind him, Charles begins to shake. There are two other inmates on the bridge watching him, but he doesn’t care. He can’t stop from quivering where he sits, terror and despair expressing itself all at once. He’s filthy all over, stains on his knees and hands from crawling, Shaw’s dried come splattered across his shirt and trousers. There are a couple of stray splotches crusted over on Charles’ collar and he scrubs it away with his sleeve violently with a ragged gasp, fighting back the bile that burns hot in the back of his throat.

He gives himself three minutes, and when they’re over, he forces himself to start running general ship-wide diagnostics. Normally the computers do it automatically, but they’re one of the longest, most tedious processes to do by hand and Charles needs the distraction. After glancing through fuel levels and reconfirming their flight path—still en route to the Gulesson, still weeks off—he pulls up the data spread for the life support systems and begins to review each sector, one by one. When he’s done with that an hour later, he starts in on the engineering systems.

After eight hours of alternating between staring at numbers and out at the unrelenting darkness of space, Charles is so immeasurably exhausted he nearly falls asleep at the console. His head is nodding against his chest when the bridge doors hiss open behind him, jolting him awake again. He doesn’t need to turn to know who’s come in: something within him instinctively snaps stiff and afraid.

“How are we doing, pet?” Shaw asks, stopping behind the pilot’s chair. His hand brushes gently through Charles’ hair, like one would pet a beloved dog. The touch makes Charles’ stomach heave but he holds still, too scared of the consequences to move.  

“We’re on course,” he grits out. “With our current fuel levels, we should make it there with a few days to spare.”

“Excellent.” Shaw tugs on his hair lightly before reaching for the dangling leash trailing down Charles’ back. “It’s dinnertime. I think you’ve earned yourself a little treat.”

The ‘treat’ turns out to be being permitted to sit at Shaw’s boots and pick at the leftovers that fall from the table. For a good hour, Charles sits sullenly in his place without moving, refusing to stoop so low as to scavenge off the ground to eat. The hollowness in his stomach aches; it feels like weeks since he last ate, but he’d had some nutri paste only two days ago. He’d shared a tube with Erik, and they’d joked over how it tasted nothing like the strawberries it was advertised to resemble. Charles had told him about the strawberries on Old Earth, the real stuff, and how he remembered getting sick because he’d eaten so many when he’d been eight years old. Erik had laughed and squeezed the rest of the tube out for him.

The aroma of chicken and potatoes now is mouth-watering. Saliva fills Charles’ dry mouth but he stubbornly refuses to look up. Once, Shaw drops a sliver of chicken by his foot, clearly on purpose, but Charles bites his lip and looks away.

After a while, Shaw says, “If you won’t eat off the floor, then you can beg me for scraps if you want to eat.”

Charles glares at him. “No.”

Shaw’s answering smile is anything but kind. “Then you won’t eat.”

It’s a struggle to keep the hunger at bay, but Charles manages to make it through dinner with his pride intact. But even then, the day isn’t over: rather than return to his quarters as Erik would have done, Shaw strolls through various sectors of the ship, inspecting his domain. Charles suspects that much of the walk is for his benefit, so that he can see the extent of Shaw’s reign and also so that he’s thoroughly worn out by the time Shaw finally allows him to rest. He stumbles along behind Shaw, bleary with exhaustion and hunger, his ribs aching fiercely and his face burning with humiliation as the inmates they pass leer at him. Though he keeps his head down as Shaw tugs on his leash, he can feel their eyes following him, dark and sinister. This may be the one and only time he’s glad to be so close to Shaw; he’s certain that if Shaw released him and left, half a dozen men would be on him at once.

Shaw even parades him through the first engineering deck under the guise of checking in with the few, scattered inmates who know anything about impulse drives and inertial dampeners are posted, but it doesn’t take Charles long to guess the real reason Shaw’s brought him down here—this is where most of the surviving mutant crewmembers have been put to work. Shaw wants them to see Charles being led along on a leash, bruised and splattered with dried come, and in turn he wants Charles to feel the weight of their horrified stares, and be humiliated in the face of their helpless pity.

Charles’ shoulders hunch defensively, and he keeps his blurry gaze focused on the ground, focusing on taking one step at a time. Shaw, of course, notices, and keeps his pace steady long enough to allow Charles to zone out a little, granting himself a false sense of security by letting his mind go utterly blank, before Shaw stops up short, yanking hard on the leash when Charles mindlessly keeps walking. Charles chokes, pulled so far sideways that his feet fly out from underneath him and he crashes down onto the deck, coughing when all the air is crushed out of his lungs and then whimpering when his ribs creak painfully.

“Clumsy,” Shaw remarks idly, and the inmates nearby laugh. “Get up, Lieutenant, I don’t have all night.”

Charles lies still for a moment longer, exhausted, before he starts to move. Gingerly, he rolls over onto his front and bites back a groan at how his ribs protest the motion, his vision wavering wildly for a second. He pushes himself up, first to his knees before slowly he climbs the rest of the way back up to his feet, arms and legs trembling with exertion. It’s at this point he happens to glance up by chance, and his eyes land directly on a familiar face—Angel, watching him with wide eyes from where she stands between two of the fat water pipes that regulate cooling and circulation.

He averts his eyes quickly, straightening and turning back around to face Shaw, who smiles widely at the way Charles’ cheeks burn. It’s bad enough for his fellow crewmates to see him like this, but it’s ten times worse to know that someone he actually knows and is friends with is watching.

“Good boy,” Shaw tells him, reaching over to pat his cheek condescendingly, “I think it’s about time for bed, don’t you?”

A block of ice could lodge itself in Charles’ chest right now and he would feel no colder, sickening dread washing through him like a toxic sludge. Shaw’s said that he doesn’t want to fuck Charles—yet—but he could change his mind at the drop of a hat. Being stuck with Shaw in a bedroom is only going to feel like tempting fate.

“I’m glad to see everything is still in order down here,” Shaw says loudly, pulling Charles back towards the elevators, “you’re all doing a marvelous job at keeping us on track.”

The ride back up to deck two is silent, and Shaw actually allows Charles to retreat as far away from him as the leash allows, not that there’s much space in the elevator to begin with. Charles feels about ready to collapse but his adrenaline is picking up again, fueled by fear, his heart beginning to race as the doors hiss open and Shaw tows him down the hall towards the captain’s quarters where he’s taken up residence.

When they reach the door, Shaw reels Charles back in, tugging him close so that Charles is once again plastered up against Shaw’s side while Shaw smirks and keys in the passcode on the panel on the wall.

“I want you to undress me,” Shaw says once they’re inside. These quarters are designed much like the first officer’s quarters, only a little bigger and with a couple extra easy chairs along with the couch. “Slowly, now, don’t rush. And fold everything neatly. Start with my shirt.”

Charles stays silent, stepping up to Shaw and getting to work on the row of buttons down Shaw’s front. He’s ditched the grey prison uniform that most of the inmates still wear, but these clothes can’t have been Huxley’s; he must have appropriated them from someone else’s quarters. Charles keeps his eyes lowered, focusing on one button at a time and trying not to hurry, as much as he’d like to get this over with.

When he’s undone all the buttons he slides the shirt off of Shaw’s shoulders, folding it up and gratefully taking the opportunity to step away from Shaw in order to put it down on the corner of the table a few paces away. When Charles turns back around, Shaw is standing with his hands on his hips, watching him with glittering eyes. He’s toed his shoes off already, and when Charles visibly hesitates he lifts a hand and crooks a finger at him.

“Kneel down,” he says when Charles slowly comes back over, and gritting his teeth, Charles obeys, going down to his knees on the floor in front of him and reaching up to start undoing the fly of his pants. “You were made for this,” Shaw remarks casually as Charles slowly pulls his pants down, revealing black silk briefs that hold in his bulging cock. He lifts a foot one at a time so Charles can pull the pants off his legs, putting one hand on the top of Charles’ head for balance. “I’m astounded no one ever tried to keep you like this before, down on your knees with your head tilted up—” he reaches down to grab Charles by the chin, jerking his head up so that Charles has to look up at him, “—like so, ready to take a cock down your throat. Essex was right. You would fetch an _astronomical_ price as a pleasure slave.” He laughs when Charles glares at him. “And I haven’t even used you yet.”

Charles can feel himself quivering, exhaustion and hatred making for an interesting combination of emotions as he fights not to give into the impulse to wrench his chin out of Shaw’s grasp. He’s never hated a single person this much in his entire life, and he’s almost glad that he’s blocked from his telepathy right now because he’s not certain what he would do if he had the ability to delve into Shaw’s mind right now. It makes him sick, to hate someone with this level intensity, but Charles is sick and tired of being afraid, sick and tired of being kept waiting on tenterhooks with his nerves on edge for the next blow to fall, for Shaw to hurt him or degrade him more. He just wants this all to _end_.

“Oh, how I would love to have you suck me,” Shaw says, patting his cheek before withdrawing his hand. “But the wait will be worth it, yes?” He picks up the end of Charles’ leash again and tugs on it. “On your feet, Lieutenant. There are still other ways I can put you to use in the meantime.”

Charles stumbles back up to his feet and nearly trips again as Shaw hauls him over towards the bed. It feels strange to still be fully dressed while Shaw is down to his briefs, like it should be the other way around, but Charles has no complaints that Shaw hasn’t stripped him down, up until the point where Shaw pushes him down over the edge of the bed so that he lies face down across the foot of the tall bed, his hips and legs hanging off the side so that his body is folded into an L-shape.

“Arms folded behind your back, Charles,” Shaw says, taking his forearms and pressing them together. There’s a small pause and then Charles feels him wind the end of the leash around his arms, tying them back into place. “I’m not going to knot this,” Shaw informs him conversationally, “because I don’t want to have to cut it off you later. But if this comes undone, little pet, I _will_ break your arm. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Charles says, the first thing he’s said in hours. The word is like acid in his mouth, that he’s agreeing with the monster standing over him.

“Excellent,” Shaw says, and then he puts a hand on both of Charles’ legs and pulls them open wide, making Charles jolt and struggle on the bed to keep from sliding backwards. “Push up on your toes, there’s a good boy. If you fall off the bed, I’ll...hm, let’s see.” Charles feels him tap the hand that’s supposed to be broken and remembers to flinch, letting a pained noise grind its way out of his throat that has more to do with his ribs than anything else. “I’ll break your other hand just like this.”

Charles has no choice but to do as he’s told, balancing up on the very tips of his toes in order to keep himself braced against the floor so he doesn’t slip backwards off the side of the bed. It’d be so much easier to hold himself in place if his arms were free, but he doesn’t dare move them from where Shaw’s loosely tied them together—he already knows that Shaw’s threats are nowhere near idle.

Shaw leaves him like that, stepping away from the bed and Charles hears him move over into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar as he runs the sink and goes through whatever his nightly routine is. Charles focuses on regulating his breathing, knowing it will do him no good to hyperventilate, and mentally preparing himself for whatever is to come next. Shaw isn’t going to fuck him, he reminds himself like a mantra, drawing in long, steady breaths, he can get through this.

He takes all his thoughts and crushes them down, compacting them down to nothing like the mass of a collapsed star, willing his anger and fear and pain to quiet, releasing them all like stardust billowing out serenely in the aftermath of the chaos of a star’s death. By the time Shaw reemerges from the bathroom, Charles is calmer, breathing slow and steady, not reacting when Shaw comes back over to him and puts both palms on Charles’ ass and squeezes.

It’s easier to pretend his mind is millions of lightyears away when Shaw moves his hands up to press down on Charles’ shoulders to hold him in place while he steps up between Charles’ spread legs and starts to rut against him, dragging his clothed cock along the curve of Charles’ ass even though Charles’ pants are still on. Shaw pants, breathing heavily in Charles’ ear while he works himself up, making sure that Charles’ whole body rocks with every one of his thrusts. Charles merely lies still while Shaw uses him, his own cock remaining flaccid and limp down between his legs, eyes open but unseeing, drifting somewhere across the galaxy like a nebula.

He doesn’t even react when Shaw finally comes, thrusting down against Charles one last time and then fumbling with his briefs to pull his cock out to shoot come all across the back of Charles’ pants and shirt. He stays ranging over Charles for a few extra moments, panting with satisfaction, his fingers digging in painfully to Charles’ shoulderblades. Then he pats Charles’ flank, like one would a racehorse, and then pulls back, moving off towards the bathroom again.

“You can sit up,” he calls after a moment, “and untie your arms. You’re sleeping on the end of the bed tonight since you’ve done so well for me today. But let’s make tomorrow better, yes?”

“Yes,” Charles says woodenly, slowly sliding his legs shut so he has enough leverage to push himself up further onto the bed with a pained grunt. He’s sore and stiff, but at least Shaw didn’t fuck him. It’s one small mercy.

The end of the makeshift leash wrapped around his arms falls away easily enough, and Charles rolls his shoulders gingerly, wincing when they twinge. He sits on the edge of the end of the bed, Shaw’s come cooling on his back, and never before has a couch looked so much more inviting than a bed. His hands are shaking a little, fine tremors running through him, but they calm when Charles takes as deep of breath he can manage right now, letting it out slowly. He’s coping.

Shaw is nude when he returns to the bed, but he’s utterly unabashed about it, lifting the edge of the covers and sliding underneath them, making himself comfortable against the pillows. “Give me your leash,” he says, holding out a hand, and Charles has to hand the end of it to him, bracing for Shaw to yank him forward.

Miraculously, Shaw doesn’t, but he does tie it around one of the posts of the headboard, so Charles has to scoot further onto the bed to avoid being choked by the collar.

“Lie down, Charles,” Shaw says with a smile. “You should be thanking me for not making you sleep on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Charles forces out between his teeth, lying down carefully on his side as far away towards the end of the bed as his leash will allow. His breath hitches at the twinge his ribs give, but he knows better than to try shifting around: degrading as it is, the end of the bed will be far easier on him in the long run than if Shaw does decide to kick him down to the floor. He doubts that he’ll be able to find any form of comfortable position anyway.

“You’re welcome,” Shaw says graciously, “and make sure to get plenty of rest. I know you need it after how exciting today’s been.”

Charles closes his eyes in lieu of answering, and Shaw chuckles to himself before turning off the lights. As soon as it’s dark, Charles’ eyes open again, staring out sightlessly into the artificial night and letting the darkness press back against his pupils. He’s not sleeping tonight, not when he’s trapped in the lion’s den and tied to the lion’s bed.

In truth it does take him a long time to fall asleep, mostly on the account of all the aches and pains shooting through his body, but eventually he does succumb to his exhaustion in the later hours of the night cycle, drifting downwards into deep, dark sleep.

If only he could stay there.

 

*

 

In the morning Shaw makes him crawl up the bed and straddle his lap, and then directs Charles to brace his hands on either side of Shaw’s shoulders while he rubs himself over Shaw’s cock, a pantomime of sex: Shaw pulls the covers down and brings his cock out for the act, but Charles remains mercifully clothed, gritting his teeth and wishing all manner of chafing on Shaw.

It’s hard to find a rhythm, the pain in his ribs making it nearly impossible to move how Shaw wants him to, and Charles is dizzy with hunger, but somehow he manages, brushing his ass back and forth over Shaw’s cock while Shaw thrusts up against him until he comes. Afterwards Shaw pushes him off the side of the bed entirely, and Charles lies on his side on the floor all throughout Shaw’s morning shower, letting Shaw’s come dry and trying not to scream.

Charles isn’t granted a shower, though Shaw does allow him to wipe his face on a wet washcloth, but only after he makes Charles ask nicely for it. Charles’ head is still spinning by the time Shaw is ready to disembark from the room, his hunger a constant, gnawing throb in his belly that almost blots out everything else that hurts.

He’s resigned himself to another long day of being towed around behind Shaw like a dog, but they’ve barely made it two steps out the door before two inmates and Azazel are hurrying towards them, looking like they’ve been waiting for Shaw to arrive for awhile now.

“What’s this?” Shaw asks as they come to a stop in front of him, idly curious.

“Trouble,” Azazel says.

“It’s the other pilot,” one of the other inmates explains quickly when Shaw raises an eyebrow, “last night he threw himself out of an airlock.”

“Excuse me,” Shaw says, icily calm, and Charles can only stare at them in horror, not quite comprehending them at first. Ramirez threw himself out of an airlock. Ramirez committed _suicide_. “Who was posted with him up on the bridge last night?”

“Hemlock and Nuñez,” the third inmate answers, “we’ve got them, er, down in one of the cells. We knew you’d want to...talk to them.”

“Indeed I do,” Shaw says silkily, spinning Charles’ leash slowly between his hands contemplatively. “Who is on the bridge now?”

“Just Weirman,” Azazel says, “but he cannot access all of the systems.”

“Well we’re hardly going to suddenly veer off course now,” Shaw muses. “How many people know about this?”

“The three of us, Hemlock and Nuñez, and—” the inmate pauses for a split second, suddenly nervous, “—two of the crew saw it happen too.”

“Fools,” Shaw hisses, and behind him Charles takes a step backwards at the pure venom in his voice, “you should have thrown them both out the airlock after him. If it spreads to the rest of the crew that it only takes a short walk to escape—” he cuts himself off, and Charles can’t see his expression but is glad anyway. “The three of you are to go down to where you’ve put Hemlock and Nuñez and wait for me there.”

Charles stumbles after Shaw when he takes off down the corridor towards the elevator, pulling Charles relentlessly along behind him. A sharp crack signals that Azazel has left with the two other inmates, and the elevator doors hiss open to admit Charles and Shaw inside a second later.

As soon as they close again Shaw whirls around and slams Charles back against the wall, hard enough for his head to crack against the metal. Instinctively Charles struggles, terrified that Shaw is going to crush him, but Shaw merely grabs him by the front of his soiled shirt and slams him back again and Charles droops in his grip, dazed and momentarily stunned.

“Listen carefully, Lieutenant Xavier,” Shaw says, leaning forward to murmur the words directly into Charles’ ear in the parody of a lover’s whisper, “there is no escape from this ship. There is no escape from _me_. Now, you aren’t going to try taking a walk out an airlock anytime, are you? Because I assure you, I can make your precious Erik live in agony for _weeks_ before I kill him. Are we clear?”

“Y-Yes,” Charles chokes out, struggling to breathe under the impossible weight Shaw is pressing down against his chest, fear making his breath draw up short.

“Very good,” Shaw says, withdrawing just as abruptly as he’d attacked, and Charles nearly slides down the wall to the floor when he’s released again. Shaw stands in the center of the elevator, adjusting and straightening his clothes, and when the doors hiss open again they’ve arrived up on the Serenity’s bridge.

Charles hurries to follow Shaw this time when he strides forward, his right hand clutching at his middle to hold his ribs still. Weirman hops up from where he’d been sitting down in one of the chairs at the sight of Shaw, taking one look at Shaw’s expression and sliding the comm link in his hands down into one pocket nervously.

“Do the morning diagnostics checks,” Shaw says, addressing Charles as he tugs him over to the main console. “I’ll be back to collect you later, after I’ve made sure to have the same chat with everyone else.”

There’s nothing to do but obey. Charles unlocks the main console and runs the general diagnostics checks. The whole time, his mind races. Ramirez is dead. Charles is the only one left with full access to pilot the ship. No doubt he’ll be forced to take longer shifts on the bridge every day, which is actually a relief, since he won’t have to spend as long in Shaw’s clutches. And with this, he has more leverage against Shaw and everyone on this goddamned ship. He’s less expendable than ever.

After a moment, shame flushes through him, making his stomach roil. How can he be so glad for Ramirez’s death? He should be mourning his fellow crewmember, not working out all the ways the suicide benefits him. God, this whole fucking ship is getting to him. He can’t start thinking like the inmates. He can’t or he’s lost.

The diagnostic checks come back normal, and Charles is left sitting idly in his seat, watching the stars go by. He’s tired enough that his eyelids keep drooping shut and he can’t stop yawning. A nap sounds deliciously indulgent right now, but he’s afraid of Shaw coming back and finding him sleeping on duty. So after a while, he gets up and paces around the navigation table, trying to get his blood flowing. Weirman watches him in silence without moving from his perch.

Just as he’s passing by the table’s outer edge, the doors hiss open. Charles starts to scramble toward the pilot’s chair, but it isn’t Shaw who steps through, it’s Logan.

He stops up short in surprise. “Lo—”

“Shut the fuck up and get back to work,” Logan interrupts him, taking the unlit cigar out of his mouth and giving Charles a nasty glare. Charles gapes at him, but then hurries to obey when Logan adds a pointed, “ _Well_?”

Charles sits down in the chair, pulling open a new screen even though there’s nothing really for him to do. Behind him, he hears Logan stomp further onto the bridge.

“You,” Logan says, and Charles uses it as an excuse to turn around, feigning belief that Logan is still addressing him. Logan’s looking at Weirman, however, and Charles remains turned in his seat to watch. “Get out.”

“I’m supposed to stay here,” Weirman says suspiciously, eyeing Logan speculatively.

Logan snorts. “Do you or do you not want to go eat something, dumbass? I’m your relief. Came up here out of the kindness of my own goddamn heart, so get out of here before I change my mind.” Down at his side, his glinting steel claws slowly slide out of his fist.

Weirman needs no further convincing, glancing at Charles briefly before shuffling over to the elevator doors. Logan makes a small noise of contempt as he passes and Weirman’s pace picks up, practically slamming his fist down on the panel to open the doors so he can duck inside. And then the doors slide shut and amazingly, Charles and Logan are alone.

“Logan,” Charles says, rocketing back up to his feet and he’s not sure whether or not his voice has cracked.

Logan turns back towards him slowly, letting out a long sigh. “Holy shit, kid.”

“I’m glad to see you,” Charles says, and embarrassingly enough his relief is so potent that he almost wants to sob. He’s only been stuck with Shaw for a day now, but being alone with a familiar face is like he’s been thrown a life preserver, even if he only met Logan once months ago. “I’m—I’m so _glad_.”

“Easy, Chuck,” Logan says, walking over towards him. His claws retract back into his skin as he comes to a stop in front of Charles, letting out another puff of breath and running a hand back through his hair as he looks Charles up and down. “Shit. Listen, this ain’t from me, alright? It’s from Anna Marie. I don’t even like this kind of shit, but you look like you need it.”

Before Charles can ask what he means, Logan steps forward and envelopes Charles into a warm embrace, pulling him in close and hugging him gently. Charles has a single, startled moment where he freezes, blinking once in confusion, but then it’s like he’s a puppet whose strings have been cut and he sags into Logan’s arms, his knees buckling as he buries his face in Logan’s shoulder and trembles noiselessly. Logan merely supports him, bearing his weight—not that he’s particularly heavy anymore, he’s lost so much of it these past few months—and holds on, not saying a word even when Charles probably holds on too tightly for too long.

It feels so good to take comfort from someone, even though he barely knows Logan. He does know that Logan’s a friend of Erik’s and means him no harm, a rarity on this ship, but in this case it’s more than enough.

Eventually Logan gets him seated back down in the pilot’s chair, lowering him down gently and waiting for Charles to let go before stepping back a few paces to lean against the console nearby, chomping on his cigar like it’s gum. Charles slumps in his seat, utterly drained on all levels: physically, mentally, emotionally. He closes his eyes, thinking that maybe with Logan here he can finally get a little bit of sleep, safe with the knowledge that Logan will protect him, but then he hears the crackle of plastic and opens his eyes blearily to watch Logan dig something out of his pocket.

“Here,” Logan says gruffly, holding the packet out in Charles’ direction, “eat this now.”

On closer inspection, it’s a packet of beef jerky that Logan is offering him and Charles practically snatches it from his hand, ripping it open and inhaling the first three bites. He doesn’t chew them very well and ends up choking a little, coughing while Logan reaches around him to pound on his back.

“I said eat it, not drink it,” Logan says dryly when Charles holds up a hand to signal that he’s fine, swallowing painfully a couple times. “Chew your damn food.”

“Thank you,” Charles says in a watery voice, coughing one last time before digging another piece of jerky out of the bag and eating this one more slowly.

“Don’t mention it,” Logan mutters, leaning back against the console again. “So. What’s he done to you.”

Charles looks up at him sharply, mouth full of food.

“Look,” Logan says flatly, “Lehnsherr’s in the medbay going out of his _mind_ about you. Your friend McCoy had to tie him down with those hospital restraints to keep him from charging off to try and kick Shaw’s ass, which would definitely get him killed. You need to tell me exactly what Shaw’s done to you so far so I can decide which parts to tell Lehnsherr to get him to shut the fuck up and rest.”

“Is Erik okay?” Charles asks, sitting up ramrod straight and clenching the beef jerky bag so tightly that his knuckles go white.

“Jesus Christ,” Logan sighs, muttering something else under his breath that sound suspiciously like _hopeless_. “Erik got the shit beat out of him and it ain’t pretty, but he’ll live. McCoy ain’t allowed to do much in the way of fixing him up, though, so healing is going to take awhile, especially if he keeps trying to fight his way off the biobed in order to get back to _you_.”

Charles’ heart twists in his chest, and for a moment he can’t breathe with how much he wants to see Erik again, if only to see with his own eyes that Erik is okay, that Erik will be _alright_. He bites down hard on the jerky in his mouth to keep himself from saying anything overly sentimental, because Logan looks like he’s bracing himself for it. He _is_ hopeless, Charles thinks, nearly wanting to laugh with nothing close to humor, he’s hopelessly in love with Erik.

“Come on, kid,” Logan says, surprisingly gentle and drawing Charles back out of thought, “just list it out.”

“Shaw hasn’t fucked me,” Charles says, and it’s easier to say than he thought it would be. “He hasn’t even made me suck his cock yet because he says he wants to do it for the first time when Erik is watching. He’s rubbed himself off on me in a few different positions, though, and he keeps me on a short leash.” He holds up the strip of cloth that hangs down from his collar limply. “Literally.”

“Christ,” Logan says, and it’s not pity he looks at Charles with, not really, but rather his expression is a mixture of anger and weary acceptance, like he’d expected just as much. “That psychopath was sick enough back in KG, but now he’s taking it to a whole new level.”

“Good to know that he’s amping it up just for me,” Charles replies, a little hysterically, and Logan shakes his head quickly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, scuffing his boot across the floor, “but alright, thanks. Now at least I can tell Erik you’re alive and in one piece and not be lying about it.”

“Tell him to please just focus on healing,” Charles says quietly, aching in a way that has nothing to do with his bruises, “and that I’ll be alright.” There’s not an ounce of conviction in the statement, but luckily Logan doesn’t call him on it.

“Anna Marie will be glad to hear it,” is all he says, and Charles looks up again, struck by a thought.

“Wait—can’t you and Anna Marie—?”

“Yeah, we could,” Logan admits, “but then what’s to stop Lehnsherr from flying up here and attacking Shaw again and winding up right back where he started? Or worse? You might’ve been able to sweet talk Shaw into sparing Lehnsherr this time, but I doubt he’ll be so lenient a second time.”

Charles knows without even having to think about it very long that Logan is right. If Logan and Anna Marie use their abilities to heal Erik like they healed Charles’ broken hand, Erik won’t waste a second in running straight back to Charles and Shaw. As much as he wants to see Erik healed, he also doesn’t want Erik handing Shaw a gift-wrapped excuse to kill him.

“Okay,” Charles says slowly, “hold off on healing him for now. How long till Alex and Darwin finish the e-pod? Because I think,” he says, giving Logan a meaningful look and trying not to sound too desperate, “we’re going to have to step up our plans if at all possible.”

“Finish eating the jerky,” Logan orders, and waits until Charles pops another piece in his mouth and starts chewing before he continues. “They’ve kicked into overdrive on it, but it’s still going to take them a week at the very least to get it to be barely flight-ready. Think you can hang on for that long?”

“I’ve got to try,” Charles says, despair settling in him. A whole week. He’s only been enduring Shaw for a day and already it feels like a lifetime. A week seems like eternity. He takes a deep breath and eats another piece of jerky. “I can do it.”

“You’ve got the hardest job out of all of us now,” Logan says bluntly, “but you’re made of tough shit, kid.”

“I can’t be much younger than you are,” Charles points out dryly. Logan hardly looks a day over 30.

“I’m 99,” Logan deadpans, and Charles honestly can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“A week,” he says, getting back on track. “I know originally your friend was supposed to pick us up near the Gulesson, but we’re still a month away at least. Will they be able to come any sooner?”

“They should be able to,” Logan says, “as long as we send a message out to ’em now. That’s the other reason I came up here, Shaw’s all distracted with his little demonstration he’s got going on downstairs about airlocks, so it’s a good time to send a message out if you’ll oblige.”

Charles shudders at the thought of what exactly Shaw is demonstrating, but swivels his chair around to face the console. “It’s a good thing you got rid of the guard,” he says, opening a transmission channel on a holoscreen and pushing it over towards Logan, “because if anyone saw me opening the communications screen, they’d call for Shaw in a heartbeat.”

“That why you haven’t managed to send out an SOS to IF Command these past few weeks?” Logan asks dryly, but turns around to begin tapping out a message on the hovering hologram, in an odd code that Charles can’t decipher in the single glances he gleans of it. He polishes off the rest of the beef jerky while he watches, and now at least his stomach feels less like it’s about to collapse in on itself.

“No,” Charles admits once he’s swallowed down the last piece, “they also destroyed the long-range transmitter, so even if I did manage to try and send out an SOS to Command, it probably wouldn’t make it past OZ-30 now. So I hope your friend is relatively close.”

“Oh I’m sure he’s within a few sectors of here,” Logan says absently as he skims his message, “he has an annoying knack for showing up in the least expected places.”

“As long as he can show up where he’s expected, too,” Charles says fervently. “We’ll only be able to last so long in an e-pod.”

“I’d rather take my chances in one than stay in this hellhole any longer,” Logan says frankly, and Charles nods his agreement.

“So the e-pod will be finished in a week,” Charles says after a couple moments of silence, trying not to get too excited or elevate his hopes too high, “and as soon as it’s done, we’ll make our move. We can escape at the end of the day, when I’m supposed to be up here for my shift and most people will be at dinner. Shaw doesn’t stick around to babysit me so it’s the only time I’m out of his sight. I’ll sneak down to the medbay and then you and Anna Marie can heal Erik. He won’t go after Shaw if I’m already there, and then we can all go straight down to engineering and leave.”

“Lot of things can go wrong with that,” Logan remarks, “but it’s about as solid as we can hope for right now. I’ll keep you posted on the pod’s progress when I can. You just focus on keeping your head up and surviving.”

“Keep my head up and survive,” Charles repeats. “Simple.”

After a moment, Logan wraps up his message and pushes the screen back toward Charles for authorization. Normally the comms officer would approve the transmission, but since Charles is pretty much the last officer on this whole ship, he enters his override code, waits for the computer to accept it, and then keys in the transmission frequency Logan indicated at the heading of the message. In a second, the blinking green light at the bottom of the screen indicates that the transmission’s gone through.

Strange to think he’s the highest ranking officer on the Serenity now. In the hierarchy of things, he’s effectively the captain. The captain of a doomed ship.

“Hey,” Logan says, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “One week. Don’t let yourself forget it.”

Charles nods. “Believe me, I won’t.” He’s not doomed here, he tells himself firmly. They’re going to get out. Seven short days and they’re going to be putting as much distance between themselves and this godforsaken ship as possible. Seven days or fewer and he’ll see Erik again.

“I should get going,” Logan says after a moment. “Don’t want Shaw coming up here and catching me with you.”

Charles’ chest constricts, his lungs feeling as if they’ve halved in size all at once. “Please…” But he can’t ask Logan to stay. He’s risked enough already by coming up here at all, and if Shaw even suspects anything going on between them, they’re entirely lost.

“Please keep Erik safe,” he finishes finally. “And tell him I’m okay.”

Logan grunts an affirmative even as he shakes his head. “You’re a couple of idiots, do you know that? He told me to tell you the same thing.”

Charles’ lips quirk upward briefly in as much of a smile as he can manage to summon right now, but inwardly a warm wave of fondness loosens his tensed muscles just a little more. Erik’s going to be alright. They both are.

“I’ll find someone else and send them up,” Logan adds over his shoulder as he walks back towards the elevator, “don’t want Shaw to find you up here by yourself, that’s just asking for it. Keep it up, Chuck.”

Charles tries not to feel too bereft as he watches the doors slide shut behind Logan and he’s left alone on the bridge. Once he would have relished the opportunity of being left unsupervised, but now it just makes him nervous. He hopes Logan manages to find someone to come stand guard over him before Shaw returns. Shaw seems determined to not actually fuck him until they have Erik as an audience, but he hasn’t made any promises about beating Charles bloody if he deems Charles warrants it.

Running his hands through his hair and letting out a long, shaky breath, Charles swivels back around to face the console again. He makes sure to tuck the empty beef jerky packet down into one of the waste receptacles, because no doubt Shaw expects Charles to remain starving, and then there’s nothing for him to do except keep himself preoccupied by tinkering with the ship’s sensors, examining some of the planets in the star system nearby without really seeing any of the data that immediately begins to scroll down the screen.

Ten minutes pass and Charles’ heart nearly stops when the elevator doors hiss open again, but he nearly sags in relief when an inmate who clearly isn’t Shaw steps out onto the bridge. They stare at each other for a moment before Charles carefully turns back around towards the console again, tensed as he listens to the other man’s footsteps as he crosses the bridge. He doesn’t come near Charles, though, walking over to the other end of the room and out of the corner of his eye Charles sees him take up residence in one of the comm stations.

He relaxes by a degree or two. He knows logically that he’s probably under even better protection now than he was with Erik—no one will _dare_ touch him while he’s the object of Shaw’s focus and risk Shaw’s ire—but that doesn’t mean Charles is ever going to let his guard down. As Shaw himself has proven, there are plenty of things that can be done to him that don’t involve outright fucking him and yet are still disgustingly perverse.

Perverse. God, Charles almost wants to laugh but then he’s afraid that he might not be able to stop. That’s putting things lightly.

He’s only on the bridge for about another hour before Shaw returns to collect him, a couple of the inmates Ramirez had been teaching to pilot the Serenity on his heels. He isn’t angry anymore, relaxed and jovial as he twists the end of Charles’ leash around his wrist and pulls him into the elevator, which is almost worse than facing his wrath. Shaw’s good mood must mean that the assembly that Logan mentioned he held went well, which also means that he’s just murdered the two inmates who allowed Ramirez to escape.

“You’ll be going back up to the bridge again later for your regular shift, of course,” Shaw explains to him as the elevator descends, “but for now let’s relax a little, shall we?”

Charles doesn’t answer, but it’s not like it’s expected of him anyway. The lift comes to a stop on deck four and he follows Shaw down the corridor, tense and wary. It’s like he’s constantly walking through one of the haunted house exhibits that Raven always used to drag him through anytime they ever went to one of the numerous Halloween festivals back on Corellia. He was never scared on the account of his telepathy, as he’d be able to sense the anticipatory thoughts of anyone hiding in the gloomy rooms waiting to leap out at them, but Raven would always jump and scream, clutching at his arm hard enough to cut off circulation even as her shock turned to laughter. Now, however, he’s in a different kind of horror house, one that’s definitely not filled with actors who aren’t allowed to touch anyone they’re scaring, and blocked from his telepathy so he has no way to tell what’s going to come at him next.

His nerves are shot to hell, he thinks wearily as he follows Shaw into the gym, and if he ever makes it home he’s never going to be able to walk through a haunted house again, telepathy or not.

Unlike the last time Charles was in the gym, when the large crowd had gathered to watch the execution of some of the Serenity’s officers, today the gym is much quieter. Inmates gather here and there in clumps, perched on gym equipment or leaned against the walls as they idly talk. A few of the weights have been set up, and a handful of people are busy getting a workout in by lifting them, and on the far side of the room a pickup game of basketball is going on, the loud slams of the ball being dribbled echoing off the high ceiling.

The gym has become the prison yard, Charles realizes as Shaw tows him over towards the stage that’s still set up, where the inmates gather for leisure time. He climbs up onto the platform after Shaw, feeling uncomfortably conspicuous once he’s standing up above everyone else—no one is staring at them outright, but he can feel eyes watching them from all around.

Shaw settles himself in the single chair that sits in the center of the stage, legs sprawled lazily wide; a king on his throne overlooking his court. Charles goes to kneel down beside him, glad that he’ll at least be able to hide somewhat in the shadow of the chair, but Shaw stops him with a smirk.

“Oh no, Lieutenant Xavier,” he says in amusement, patting his knee invitingly, “be a good boy and sit on my lap this time.”

Charles freezes, and for a wild split second he finds himself wondering how far he could actually make it if he turned and ran right now, but then he steels himself and cautiously steps closer to Shaw, turning around and gingerly sinking down in Shaw’s lap.

Shaw wraps an arm around his waist and tugs him backwards, ordering, “Lean back against me,” and Charles has no choice but to obey, letting his body go limp as Shaw positions him how he wants him. He ends up with his head cushioned on Shaw’s shoulder, his legs spread wide so that they dangle off to either side of Shaw’s thighs, feet not even touching the ground. It leaves him feeling extremely exposed and vulnerable, even more so when after Shaw finishes tying the end of Charles’ leash to the armrest, he slips his hand up underneath the front of Charles’ shirt to lightly skim his fingers across Charles’ skin.

His ass is directly over Shaw’s crotch, and he can feel that Shaw is already half hard in his pants.

“Comfy?” Shaw asks him pleasantly, lightly stroking Charles’ ribs. Charles doesn’t need to be told to know it’s a warning: Shaw could snap them in a heartbeat. “I felt that we should give your knees a break from all that kneeling, don’t you think? You’ll be doing plenty of it in the days to come, after all.”

Charles forces himself to stay limp, even though every nerve in his body is screaming at him to put as much distance between himself and Shaw as possible. Shaw shifts slightly beneath him, pressing his growing hard-on up against Charles’ ass a little more firmly, and Charles has to fight to stop his legs from twitching uselessly where they hang sprawled open wide.

“Your heart is racing, Charles,” Shaw murmurs in his ear, smile audible in his voice, “are you nervous?”

Charles doesn’t answer, keeping his eyes staring straight ahead blankly. Like the rest of him, his arms hang limply down at his sides, and it takes conscious effort not to clench his fists.

“You know, the lifeless doll act does get tiresome,” Shaw says, his hand dipping lower on Charles’ stomach. “Don’t think you can hide from me, Charles, even mentally.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Charles says stiffly, lips barely moving while he continues to stare sightlessly off into the distance, “a pretty doll that you can use as a fucktoy.”

Shaw laughs, delighted, and bounces his knee once to jostle Charles. “You must have me confused with Erik. Is that how he had you? Did he make you lie still while he fucked you? No, Lieutenant, there’s a reason I prefer warm, wriggling bodies.”

Charles has to clamp down on the scathing response forming at his lips, fighting to keep his face blank. Erik treated him more like a person, an actual human being, than Shaw ever has.

Across the room a fight breaks out in the middle of the basketball court, several of the inmates ganging up on one hapless player who goes down under a barrage of fists and feet, the wet sounds of flesh on flesh reaching them on the stage. Charles turns his head and looks away, nauseous, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Shaw smile.

“I might not want to fuck you while dear Erik is still waylaid in the medbay,” he says conversationally, “but why don’t you give me a couple of good reasons why I shouldn’t pass you around the room a little? You’d make an excellent prize for whichever team wins the basketball game if they ever get back to it, don’t you think?”

Cold fear washes through him, and for a moment Charles thinks he might choke on it, thick and cloying in his throat. The truth is that there _isn’t_ anything stopping Shaw from passing him around like a party favor, just like there isn’t anything stopping Shaw from doing whatever he wants on this ship period. The injustice would make him scream, except he’s known for months now that there’s no point in dwelling on it in that sense. This is reality now, plain and simple.

“You don’t strike me as someone who likes to share,” Charles says at last, surprised at how steady his voice comes out. The rest of him is trembling, and he knows Shaw can feel it. “You want me only for yourself. Besides, there’s the chance that they could…” He pauses, unsure how to put it. They could rape him raw, fuck him until he’s dead, and that’s not what Shaw wants. It’s getting harder and harder to believe that, though. “They could break me before you do, and that wouldn’t be very satisfying.”

Shaw laughs, reaching up with his free hand to lightly pinch Charles’ cheek. “Telepaths never fail to be so intuitive. Very good, Lieutenant.”

Charles jerks his head away, deciding not to mention that Shaw is about as obvious as an elephant in the room.

“In any case, let’s cut the doll act, shall we?” Shaw continues pleasantly, tapping Charles’ ribs. “I’d hate to have it beaten out of you. Arms back around my neck, Charles.”

Charles closes his eyes, letting out a breath before slowly lifting his arms, heavy enough to feel like they’re made out of lead. He reaches back behind himself and loops them behind Shaw’s neck, the motion only serving to press the rest of his body further back against Shaw’s. Shaw’s cock is rock hard where it juts up against Charles’ ass, and Charles pointedly doesn’t think about how on display he is right now, at the front of the room up on the stage and made to look like he’s holding himself willingly against Shaw in his lap.

He tries to steady his breathing as he had the night before while kneeling on the edge of Shaw’s bed, but it’s harder to calm himself when he can feel the eyes of the room on him. They’re not all staring, but they’re sneaking glimpses at him out of the corners of their eyes, watching for what he’ll do. For what Shaw will do. It makes him wonder if Shaw has ever fucked some hapless victim here before, right in the center of attention in full view of his prison crew. The way some of the inmates are leering suggests he just might have.

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Shaw says, idly tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair. “What made you to join IF military in the first place?”

Charles puzzles that one out for a moment, sure it’s a trap. When he remains silent, Shaw smiles and says, “No need to be afraid, pet, I’m just curious. What was the draw for you? Fame? Money?” He lifts his hips slightly, grinding his cock against Charles’ ass. “Exotic space whores?”

Gritting his teeth, Charles says, “I liked space.”

“Oh don’t be so trite. That’s what unimaginative teenagers write on their applications when they’re applying to the Academy.”

“And you would know that.” Charles almost scoffs but keeps the sound in at the last second.

Shaw’s nose brushes his ear in a stomach-twisting display of intimacy. “I wasn’t born in a prison, Lieutenant,” he remarks as he inhales near Charles’ nape. “You’d be surprised. At one time in my life, I was almost exactly like you.”

“You and I are nothing alike,” Charles snarls. “You make me sick.”

He braces himself for a blow, but Shaw’s hand only caresses a gentle line down his back that burns like fire. “There’s something irresistible about you, Lieutenant. It’s the spirit, I think. You’re a fighter. No doubt Erik wanted you because he’s a fighter, too. But I…” His fingers slide up Charles’ thigh and squeezes, right near his groin. “I so dearly want to know what it will take for you to break.”

Shaw is that boy, Charles thinks, with a keen hatred that closes like a vise around his heart. Shaw is that boy in the playroom that breaks other children’s toys and catches insects so he can pull their legs off and watch them writhe.

He wants to sneer, “It’s a pity you’re never going to find out because by this time next week, everyone I care about and I are going to be hundreds of light-years away and you’ll never get the chance to hurt any of us ever again.” Shaw’s expression would no doubt be priceless: disbelief, outrage, and anger all rolled into one. But Charles isn’t stupid enough to taunt him like that. He can’t say anything that might jeopardize their escape.

Shaw continues to touch him, just light stroking up and down his side, his arms, his thighs. If it were anyone else, Charles might have melted into the touch—he’s always been a tactile person—but every pass of Shaw’s fingers over his skin makes his stomach lurch unsteadily. Bad enough that Shaw has broken his bones and wants desperately to brutalize him; this show of intimacy and gentleness makes him feel ill.

Charles shuts his eyes and tries to pretend it’s Erik’s lap he’s sitting in, Erik’s mouth that’s pressing soft kisses to the back of his neck under his collar. But Shaw smells all wrong and Charles just feels filthy and humiliated, splayed on Shaw’s lap like a prize, wearing his dried come like a decoration. When they get free, the first thing he’s going to do is take a scalding hot shower that leaves him red-faced and breathless. He’s going to find himself one of those luxurious tubs from Old Earth, fill it with hot water, and sink down into it and refuse to come back up until he’s scrubbed every speck of this ship from underneath his skin.

The fantasy is delicious for as long as it lasts. But eventually, he feels Shaw shift beneath him, knee jostling against Charles’ own, and when he opens his eyes, one of the inmates is coming towards them. He’s a hulking figure, probably nearing seven feet tall, with arms that look as if they could easily squeeze the life out of a man with one curl of that giant bicep. And the look he’s giving Charles is anything but friendly.

“Captain,” the man says respectfully, touching two fingers to his forehead.

Shaw nods once in acknowledgement. “Atul. I see you admiring our little pilot here.”  

Atul smiles. His teeth are black and inky, not by any nutritional deficit or unhealthiness but by design: Charles recognizes the distinctive markings from some of the merchants he’s dealt with while flying IF economic missions. Every member of an Uthan merchant clan bears his own teeth markings, to indicate his loyalties and his trustworthiness as an established merchant. But Charles wouldn’t trust this Atul character with his boots.

“He is very pretty,” Atul says, his words heavily accented but smooth. “And I would trade a great deal for half a day with him.”

Charles stiffens, even as Shaw’s smile curves up wickedly by his ear. “This one is worth a lot to me.”

Atul pulls a jagged piece of rock from his pocket and closes his palm around it. When he opens it again, the rock gleams shining green. “What do you want for him? Emeralds?” He draws another rock out and shuts his hand; this time it comes out as a perfect pearl. “Another jewel perhaps?”

“Trifles,” Shaw says dismissively.

Atul raises an eyebrow. “You were satisfied with them when I paid for the other boys you had.”

“Those were other boys. This one…” When Shaw’s teeth close hard around Charles’ earlobe, he yelps and drops his arms from Shaw’s neck to jerk away, eyes wide. Laughing, Shaw finishes, “This one is a favorite.”

When Charles touches a finger to his ear, it comes back bloody. Though the cut there feels relatively shallow, it still stings like hell. Shaw _bit_ him and drew blood. What the _fuck._

“Did I hurt you, pet?” Shaw murmurs, pulling him back with a hand against his stomach. “Sorry about that.”

His tongue presses wet and warm against the cut, and it takes every ounce of self-control Charles possesses not to flinch out of Shaw’s lap. Fixing his eyes on the floor next to Shaw’s foot, he breathes as deeply as he can manage as Shaw licks at his ear and makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, like a lion’s purr. Atul’s gaze is riveted on them both, watching hungrily from below the stage.

“What do you ask for him?” he asks, already reaching into his pocket for another rock. “Name it and it will be yours. One of my boys, perhaps? I have seen the way you look at the blond one.”

Charles’ hand clenches into a tight fist in his lap. Shaw wouldn’t sell him, for the same reason that he wouldn’t freely pass Charles around the room for anyone who was interested. But logic doesn’t stop a little tendril of fear from worming its way up into his stomach, especially when it takes Shaw a long moment to respond.

“Your blond one,” he says at last. “And another one of your boys, any of them. Bring them to me.”

Shaw’s arm around his chest keeps Charles from tearing his way off his lap, but he struggles anyway, twisting and kicking in a bid to escape. “I’m not a fucking _prostitute_ ,” he spits furiously as he tries to vain to slip away. “You can’t sell me like I’m—like—”

The arm around his chest pulls away but before Charles can bolt, Shaw’s other hand grabs the leash and yanks on it, sending Charles crashing to his knees in front of the chair. While he’s trying to catch his breath, Shaw grabs his hair and jerks his head up painfully, pulling until tears prickle at the corners of Charles’ eyes.

“I said I wouldn’t fuck you,” Shaw says calmly, “not yet, at least. But that was the only promise I made you.” Leaning forward, he grabs Charles’ chin with his other hand, holding him in place with bruising force. Charles stills immediately, suddenly fully-conscious of how easy it would be for Shaw to crush his skull with a press of his hands. “You belong to me now, Lieutenant, and I’ll do whatever I want with you. If I wanted to trade you to Atul, nothing you could do would stop me. But,” he releases Charles and leans back in his chair, “I’m not in the mood for that today.”

Charles remains half-bent on the ground, his neck and scalp aching. Behind him, Atul says with some confusion, “You said my boys…?”

“Bring them,” Shaw says. “Let’s play a little game.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warnings: minor character death by suicide, and multiple instances of non-consensual frottage (Shaw/Charles).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: continued non-con of the same variety as the last chapter, violence, choking, graphic depictions of pain. As far as the torture goes, this is the lowest point, guys!
> 
> Thank you so much to destinyandchickens, who drew us a beautiful moment from chapter eight ([here](http://destinyandchickens.tumblr.com/post/108029635720/fanart-of-chapter-8-of-the-stars-incline-us-they)) and to somethingunholy, who made us _marvelous_ fanmixes to go with this fic ([here](http://somethingunholy.tumblr.com/post/108349829292/owning-is-power-x),[ here](http://somethingunholy.tumblr.com/post/108349767172/conceal-the-rebel-x), and [here](http://somethingunholy.tumblr.com/post/108349590332/whats-to-become-x)). We're really honored to have inspired all these things, and it made our days to receive them!

By the time Atul returns with two crewmembers in tattered black uniforms, Charles is kneeling beside Shaw’s chair, his leash curled around Shaw’s hand. He recognizes neither of the crewmembers, which is something of a relief: his degradation is at least less personal this way. But even if they once knew him, he doesn’t think they’re conscious of very much right now—they’re both staring straight past him, their gazes glazed and distant. They’re so gaunt and hollow-eyed that they look more like living skeletons than men.

“Now, Lieutenant,” Shaw says, reaching down to pet his hair, “I’m going to give you a very simple choice. Since I don’t get to fuck you for now, you get to choose who I _will_ fuck tonight.”

“Fuck,” Charles whispers. Then he says more strongly, “I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to—to be _complicit_ in someone else’s rape!”

Shaw curls Charles’ hair into his grip. “Pick one, Lieutenant. I won’t ask you again.”

The beef jerky from the morning threatens to heave up from Charles’ gut. It’s an impossible choice and Shaw knows it. Shaw _glories_ in it, keeping Charles dancing on a razor-thin wire for his entertainment.

Fuck, Charles thinks, his mind spinning desperately. His eyes dart between the two men Atul is offering. Not men really—underneath the layers of scruff and grime, they’re just boys. Their black uniforms have no stripes, no identifying markers at all: they’re ensigns, probably assigned to the ship to gain experience on deep-space missions, probably just a year or two fresh out of the Academy, eighteen or nineteen at the most. God, they’re just _kids_.

“I tell you, I favor the blond one myself,” Shaw says conversationally. “I haven’t had the pleasure of using him before. The brown-haired one, I’ve had him suck my cock and he was passable. Not much technique but he makes pretty sounds when he’s got his mouth full.”

Charles feels a hollow pit of despair begin to open up beneath him. “I’m not going to choose.”

Shaw’s hand tightens in his hair. “Please repeat that, Lieutenant,” he says, and though his tone is pleasant, there’s unyielding steel underneath.  

Oh god, he’s fucking himself over by not choosing. What if Shaw hurts Erik? What if he…but god, Charles can’t condemn either of the ensigns to Shaw’s bed. He would never be able to live with himself if he did.

He has to gasp in a breath. Shit, shit, shit, just _say_ it. Every word makes his head pound but he says again, slowly, “I’m not going to choose.”

Shaw seems to consider his answer for a moment. Then he says, “You’re as weak as Erik,” and releases his grip on Charles’ hair. Standing, he says to Atul, “The blond boy, if you will. What do you want for him?”

“Your pilot, when you are done with him.”

“Fair enough,” Shaw says indifferently. He snaps his fingers at Charles. “Get up.”

Charles’ knees feel as if they’re cemented to the ground. He has the feeling that the instant he moves, Shaw will strike him.

“I said, _get up_.”

Grabbing the chair’s arm, Charles forces himself to his feet. His legs are shaky from kneeling for so long, but Shaw doesn’t wait for him to find his balance; he descends from the stage, grabs the blond ensign by the arm, and begins to walk toward the gym’s exit. Charles has to run after him to catch up, too wary of the lecherous gazes of the other inmates to linger.

Whatever’s just happened in the gym, it seems it’s put Shaw in a bad mood. “I’m disappointed in you, Lieutenant,” he says as they enter the lift. “You didn’t play by the rules.”

“I—” Charles’ mouth is dry as dust. There’s retribution coming, he just knows it.

“I don’t appreciate it when people don’t play by the rules,” Shaw says. As the lift doors close, he turns a speculative eye on Charles. “I’m going to let you choose which bone you’d like me to break.”

Charles trembles. “I’m not—I won’t—”

Shaw is on him in a lightning-swift motion, pinning him to the wall. “Your arm perhaps,” he says, running his hand lightly along Charles’ right shoulder. “Or your leg? But then how will you crawl for me? Better your arm. Left or right, Lieutenant? Pick one or I’ll break both.”

Terrified, Charles bucks against his grip. “Get off me!”

“That’s not a decision, Charles.”

He wraps one hand around Charles’ left forearm and one around his right and squeezes. “Left!” Charles blurts out at the last second, desperate. “God—just— _left!_ ”

Shaw transfers his grip to Charles’ left arm and crushes it as if the bones there offer no more resistance than a spoiled banana. There’s a split second where Charles feels no pain at all, just a distant sort of shock, and then the agony sets in and he crumples to a knee, too stunned to even scream. His vision tunnels in on his right hand on the ground, knuckles gone white with the effort to hold his weight, and blood roars in his ears, rushing and relentless.

He’s not sure if he blacks out for a few seconds, but he doesn’t remember Shaw moving away from him. The next thing he’s aware of is Shaw taking the ensign’s arm in one hand and Charles’ leash in the other, pulling them both off the lift as he steps out. Charles is too dazed to stand; the only thing that keeps him moving is the fact that if he stopped, the collar would choke him. He slides along on his knees and hands, trying to get to his feet but failing. Shaw’s walking too quickly to give him a moment to stand up, so he’s left awkwardly scrambling after him nearly on all fours, certain that any second now, he’s going to pass out and Shaw is just going to leave him there on the floor, easy pickings for whoever passes by next.

He will never be sure afterwards how exactly he manages it, but he makes it to Shaw’s quarters without falling behind and without losing consciousness. The moment the door slides shut behind him though, he collapses down to the floor, too weak with shock to crawl even another inch. Shaw tugs on the leash hard enough for the collar to dig in under Charles’ neck, but the agony of his arm supersedes any other pain. He needs to get up, he thinks dimly. He needs to get up or Shaw will punish him again, but he’s not physically capable of standing up, he’s not physically capable of doing anything other than curling in on himself, soft, helpless cries leaking from his mouth because it hurts so fucking much he can’t breathe.

He’s not quite sure what happens next. Maybe Shaw mocks him, maybe Shaw just leaves him alone. He hears someone moving in the room and sometime later, there’s a wet slap of skin on skin and quiet grunts that could have lasted for five minutes or for an hour. Bed sheets rustle somewhere in front of him but he can’t open his eyes to see. Every one of his muscles is locked in place, curled around his broken arm as he breathes raggedly into the carpeted floor.

Eventually, there are footsteps coming toward him and a heavy touch on his shoulder. “Did I hurt you badly, pet?” Shaw asks, all menace in his voice gone. His hand is gentle as he touches Charles’ cheek. “Hush, don’t cry. Come to bed.”

Charles flinches away, attempting to curl in even tighter on himself but the motion merely serves to make his arm give an agonizing jolt of pain that shoots up his shoulder and spreads through his entire body. The noise he makes doesn’t even sound human, hot tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes and trickling down his face.

“Come here, little one,” Shaw says, his tone gentle and singsong even while his hands are as strong as iron as he forcibly makes Charles uncurl, stretching him out on his side on the carpet. “You’re sleeping on the end of the bed again, Charles.”

“No,” Charles says, or tries to say. He doesn’t know if anything resembling the word makes it past his lips as Shaw rolls him over onto his back and grabs him by the armpits, dragging him backwards across the floor like he’s a misbehaving child throwing a temper tantrum. Whatever Charles might have been trying to say is swallowed by the scream that grinds its way out of his throat, white-hot pain making his vision blank out for a second, the whole world spiraling away.

When he comes back to himself only seconds later, he’s been dumped down on the end of the bed on his back, breathing as heavily as a marathon runner. His entire arm throbs, and he’s dimly aware that he’s covered in sweat, feverish and shaking. Charles tries to gather enough spit to swallow but his mouth and throat are like sandpaper, utterly parched.

“There you go, Charles,” Shaw says, stroking Charles’ cheek with the back of his hand. Charles doesn’t even have the energy to react. “Get some sleep. I insist.”

Oddly enough, only two thoughts run simultaneously through Charles’ mind—the first, and most urgent, being that he still has to be on the bridge later for duty, even though he also has no idea why he’s so worried about that with all the other things he should be worried about right now, and the second being that he highly doubts he’ll be able to fall asleep and get any sort of rest right now while his arm still feels like it’s been lit on fire.

Then Shaw presses down on his arm with a laugh and Charles lets out a high groan of pain before blacking out, making it a moot point anyway.

 

*

 

He doesn’t sleep for long. It’s maybe a handful of hours later when he slowly regains consciousness, the agony filtering back in second by second as he rouses. For a long few minutes, he keeps his eyes closed and focuses on breathing through his nose, in and out, one inhalation and exhalation at a time.

When his breath has evened out as much as it’s going to, he opens his eyes. The room is dark, lit only by the distant light of the stars outside the window above the bed. To Charles’ relief, Shaw lies in the center of the bed, snoring lightly. Good. So long as he’s sleeping, he won’t be able to terrorize Charles. It’s a small mercy.

After a moment, he tries to sit up and freezes mid-motion, his arm screaming protests at being moved even the slightest bit. He doesn’t need to look at it to know that it’s a terrible break, much like the mess Shaw made of his hand. Only this time, there’s no Anna Marie and Logan to put him back together. He doubts Shaw will allow anyone to tend to him, not when the broken arm was a lesson. But god, he’s not sure how he’s going to function with this level of pain.

He lies back down, his back pressed against the footboard, as far away from Shaw as he can get. What’s the point in getting up? There’s nowhere to run to, and he’s not even sure Shaw wouldn’t punish him for getting water without permission. He doubts he could even breathe without Shaw’s approval.

The next couple of hours are the most miserable of his entire life. The agony is constant and dizzying. He has to press his face into the blankets to keep from making any noise that might wake Shaw. Part of him wants to force himself up, get a good look at the arm, and see if he can do anything to stabilize it. But a greater part of him blanches and trembles at even the thought of moving, so he lies as still as he can manage, curled up against the footboard and shivering in the dark.

The holo display running on the nightstand has just turned to 0720 when Shaw stirs. Charles, who’s been burying all conscious thought behind a mental wall in an effort to keep himself from thinking about the pain, snaps wide awake as soon as Shaw moves. Though he tries to keep calm, his breath shortens and his pulse starts to race. Should he pretend to be asleep? Pretend he’s just woken up?

Shaw yawns and sits up before he can do either. The room blinks up to fifty-percent lights at his command, and when he sees Charles eyeing him warily, he smiles and says, “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Charles glares at him mutely. Only six more days, he reminds himself. Hang on.

“Not feeling very talkative this morning, are we?” Shaw asks, arching an eyebrow.

Because it seems like he’s actually expecting an answer this time, Charles says grudgingly, “What do you want me to say? That I slept like a baby?” He doesn’t even recognize his own voice.

Shaw chuckles. “No need to get smart with me, pet.”

Charles tenses when Shaw starts to move, but he isn’t reaching for Charles: instead, he climbs off the bed and nudges something on the floor. It’s only when he says, “Up,” that Charles pushes himself up on his good arm to get a look at whom Shaw is addressing and—oh. Evidently the blond ensign from yesterday spent the entire night naked on the floor, so quiet that Charles hadn’t even thought to look for him.

The boy rises obediently, trembling slightly on his pale, skinny legs. Bruises mottle his skin all over, from his neck down. Some of it is obviously from fucking—he has bruises shaped like fingerprints around his sharp hips and on his inner thighs, and the hickeys on his neck and chest are dark and violent—but others just look as if he’d earned them coming out on the wrong end of a bar brawl. Someone’s been using this poor kid as a punching bag, and from the way his eyes are utterly blank as Shaw beckons him closer, the ensign has long since had the fight beaten out of him.

Shaw sits down on the edge of the bed and directs the boy to kneel between his naked legs. Already his cock is half-hard, and he pumps it lazily with one hand to bring it up to full erection. When he gestures, the ensign leans forward without hesitation, closes his mouth mechanically around Shaw’s dick, and begins to suck.

“Lovely,” Shaw sighs, winding his fingers into the ensign’s shaggy hair.

Charles closes his eyes. The least he can do is not be party to the ensign’s humiliation. He remembers how shameful it had felt, servicing Erik in the hallway in full view of anyone who cared to look. Even in those worst moments he’d had Erik, who’d tried to make things easier for him. But this ensign has no one, and if the only way Charles can help him is to refuse to be a witness to his degradation, then he’ll do it.

Of course, he should have expected Shaw to notice. “Open your eyes, pet,” he says languidly. “I want you to see what I have in store for you.”

Don’t do it, Charles tells himself. Don’t.

“Lieutenant.”

The warning tone in Shaw’s voice forces his eyes open. As soon as Charles is watching, Shaw grips the ensign’s head with both hands and starts to snap his hips forward, brutally fucking the boy’s mouth. The ensign chokes, his hands flying up automatically to try to break Shaw’s hold, but he’s far too weak to put up a fight. After a few futile seconds, he goes limp between Shaw’s legs, submitting entirely.

There’s no life in him. Even his brief struggle had been more of a survival instinct against choking than a conscious attempt at escape. His half-lidded eyes are devoid of any light, any awareness. If they had the chance to run, Charles isn’t sure the ensign would even know why he should.

It takes only a couple more minutes before Shaw finishes, grunting loudly as he shoves his cock deep enough that the ensign’s whole body jerks as he gags. Come spills from the edges of his mouth and runs down his chin, dripping onto the ground beneath him. When Shaw releases his head, the ensign slides off him, more because of gravity than anything else, and crumples to the floor, his eyes staring sightlessly at the side of the bed as he makes no attempt to swallow or spit.

Shaw eyes the boy dispassionately for a moment before standing up. “I’m going to shower. Clean him up.”

Charles waits until Shaw has disappeared safely into the bathroom before attempting to sit up. This time, since he’s prepared for it, the pain is easier to bear. Cradling his broken arm to his chest, he slides off the bed onto his knees beside the ensign and then hesitates. He’s not a medic and he’s not at all trained in trauma care; all he’s learned is the basic first aid the Academy teaches all its graduates in a single, hour-long session at the beginning of their freshman year, and he’s pretty sure knowing how to suture a cut is going to be next to useless for him here.

Finally, he just decides to go for it and scoots forward so that the boy is in reach. “What’s your name?” he asks kindly.

Those dark brown eyes remain fixed on the side of the bed. The ensign doesn’t even seem to have heard him.

“I’m Charles,” Charles says anyway. His voice is rough, unrecognizable to even his own ears, but Charles doesn’t think about it. “I’m going to clean you up, alright? We should…wipe your mouth and get you into some warm clothes.”

He waits for affirmation but the ensign might as well have been comatose for all the reaction Charles gets. But since he receives no outright protest, he gently eases the ensign up into a sitting position and goes about cleaning him off. There’s really not much to use as a towel, so Charles settles for using the edge of the bed sheet, wiping off the ensign’s mouth and scrubbing at some of the dried come left on his skin from Shaw fucking him last night.

The whole time, the ensign stays docile and quiet, more like a doll than a living thing. Charles tries to ask him his name again, tries to ask about his family and his duties on the ship and his favorite hobbies, but none of the questions elicits any response. If only he had his telepathy, he might be able to slip into the boy’s mind and find out just how far gone he is. There’s a reason telepathic therapy is so popular among those who can afford it: it works miracles where conventional therapies don’t, and the success stories are varied and numerous. Charles isn’t trained in psychotherapy, but he likes to think he’s fairly good at knowing the human mind. If the ensign has just shut the bulk of his consciousness away as a defense mechanism, Charles is certain he’d be able to slide in and contact him.

But the collar sits heavy and oppressive on his neck. The only thing Charles can do is help the ensign into his clothes and try to coax him into talking, one gentle question at a time.

By the time Shaw emerges from his shower, Charles has the ensign sitting up against the bed and drinking some water. Hunger and thirst had overridden fear, and Charles had taken a couple of water canisters and nutri pastes from the stockpile Shaw has collected on the table by the kitchen area. He stiffens as Shaw’s gaze passes over them, sure he’s about to be rebuked for taking without asking, but Shaw only gives them a cursory glance before going to the closet to pick out his clothes. Evidently he’s in some hurry because he doesn’t speak another word to either of them while he dresses. When he’s done, he just snaps his fingers at Charles in a clear indication for him to get up.

Charles starts to help the ensign up, too, but Shaw says, “Leave him. You’re due on the bridge, so come.”

There’s nothing to do but leave the boy behind. He follows Shaw out into the hall and up the lift to the bridge. Thankfully, Shaw seems too occupied with his own thoughts to speak, and for once, they make it to their destination without any incident.

The on-duty inmate who was monitoring the screens stands up from the pilot’s chair as they enter, and Charles makes a beeline for it. His legs give out entirely as he nears and he collapses down into the chair, face pale and drawn. His vision keeps blurring in and out of focus and now that he doesn’t have the distraction of taking care of the ensign he can’t concentrate on anything other than the relentless throbbing agony coming from his arm. He still can’t even look at it to see what the break looks like for fear of gagging—and if he gags, he’ll definitely throw up and he has nothing left anymore in his stomach he can afford to lose.

Shaw stands in front of him, shaking his head with a sigh. “It’s only a broken arm, Charles, really. One would think it was the end of the world with the way you’re carrying on.”

Charles has no energy left in the way of controlling his facial expression so there’s no telling what his face looks like as he stares up at Shaw with his wavering vision, the man who is single-handedly responsible for all of Charles’ pain now and in the past few months. Carrying on. _Carrying on_.

Shaw sighs again, keeping his put-upon air. “Run down to the medbay and fetch Dr. McCoy,” he says, addressing the other inmate currently posted on the bridge, “and make sure he brings the proper materials to set a broken bone. Anything for our princess.” He reaches down to pat Charles on the cheek.

“Don’t touch me,” Charles snarls weakly and jerks away, probably about as effective as a puppy growling but he can’t _stand_ it any longer.

“There’s my little spitfire,” Shaw says, looking down at him with terrible amusement. “Unfortunately I can’t stay, I need to have another chat with Essex. Behave yourself, Charles. I don’t want to have to break your other arm too.”

Charles merely glares at him, and keeps glaring even when Shaw turns away and walks back over to the elevators. He thought he was unsure what he’d do if he had access to his telepathy but now he knows: he’d dive into Shaw’s mind in an instant and shut him _down_.

The thought unnerves him a little, even with the ever-present haze of pain that doesn’t allow him to focus on it for long. At least he’ll get to see Hank soon. Charles tries to be happy about it, because Hank will be a sight for sore eyes and be able to bring him news about Erik on top of setting his arm, but his pain and outright exhaustion are too distracting.

He zones out for awhile, unable to even attend to his bridge duties and remaining slumped in the pilot’s chair with his eyes barely cracked, unable to keep them fully open but also unable to slip back down into blissful unconsciousness—it hurts too much. If he had the energy, Charles thinks he would cry, and somewhere deep down he hates himself a little, for not being strong enough to take this, but who possibly could? He feels like a piece of steel that’s been slowly bent to the breaking point despite his best efforts of resistance, and it’s only a matter of time before he’ll snap.

“Charles?” Hank says in shock as soon as the elevator doors hiss open. “My god— _Charles_!”

Charles forces his eyes open a little more to see Hank loping across the bridge towards him, his horrified expression also etched with fury. “Hank,” is all he manages to get out as his friend comes to a stop in front of him, trying to push himself up into a better sitting position.

“He didn’t say it was you when he came to fetch me,” Hank murmurs, setting the portable medkit he carries down and bending over Charles carefully, “just that I needed to patch up a broken arm. Oh, Charles, what have they _done_ to you.” The last part is spoken mostly to himself but the pity in Hank’s voice makes Charles want to curl up into a ball. “Alright, I’m going to rip off your sleeve, okay?”

“It’s broken,” is all Charles says faintly, and then whimpers even as Hank takes his arm as gently as possible and uses one claw to rip the sleeve of Charles’ shirt just above his elbow, carefully tearing away the fabric in order to bare Charles’ left forearm. Charles looks away as Hank bends down to examine the break.

“That it is,” Hank agrees grimly, setting his arm back down with reverent care, and then bends down to pop his medkit open. “Let’s see what I can do. Ah, _excellent_ , I was hoping—” He straightens, holding up a hypospray triumphantly. “You’re going to like this.”

Charles grits his teeth when the doctor takes his arm again, carefully turning it over and finding his vein. There’s a sharp sting as Hank injects him with the hypospray that makes Charles flinch a lot harder than it normally would have, but then he lets out a loud, ragged gasp that rides on the edge of a helpless sob as his entire arm goes blissfully _numb_.

“There you go,” Hank says gently as Charles lets out another sob, tears leaking out of his eyes as all his muscles unclench from where they’d been tight with tension against the pain, his entire body going lax. He helps Charles lean back, patting his right shoulder. “Just let it out, Charles, it’s fine.”

Nodding weakly is about all he can manage right now, letting his eyes slip closed again. He draws in a few more rasping breaths before he swallows, desperately trying to control himself. Now that the pain is temporarily nullified his exhaustion hits him in full force, settling down over him like a heavy shroud.

“Go down to the mess hall and bring him back something filling but bland,” Hank says frostily, and it takes Charles a delayed moment to put together that he’s addressing the inmate. “Oatmeal will do. Just make sure it’s _warm_.” There’s a pause of silence where the the man must stare at him sullenly because then Hank snarls, “Shaw wants him functioning so are you or are you not going to follow his orders? Or would you rather I explain to him later that I was unable to do my job to the fullest extent because you wouldn’t cooperate?”

A moment later Charles hears the elevator doors hiss open and shut.

“Sorry,” Hank mutters, rifling around in his medkit, “I didn’t know how else to get him to obey.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep anything down for long, Hank,” Charles mumbles. Earlier he’d given most of the paste to the ensign, and the single mouthful he’d managed to swallow down himself had made him nauseous so he’d stopped trying to eat.

“Just try your best,” Hank replies, “you need something in you.” The small chirp of a tricorder follows, no doubt as Hank scans him to check his vitals. “Okay, keep your eyes closed, I’m going to realign the bone now. You shouldn’t feel anything, but not a lot of people like to actually watch.”

Charles makes a small noise of agreement, only dimly aware of the fact that Hank has lifted his arm again. He floats in the grey area of the only semi-conscious, the only reason he hasn’t drifted off completely being that he knows he can’t; he’s not safe, even with Hank standing over him. There’s a sickening crack and a jolting vibration, and Charles braces himself for pain but none of it comes, the numbness protecting him from feeling anything.

Hank must take Charles’ lack of reaction as a good sign, making a small satisfied sound after a beat. “Good, it’s straight. I’m going to wrap it up with a splint to hold it since that’s all I have, but it’ll still make you feel loads better even when the hypospray wears off.”

Blearily Charles blinks his eyes open to watch Hank make the splint, his large, clawed hands quick and efficient as he wraps Charles’ arm with white medical bandage. A glance around the bridge reveals that they’re alone, the inmate Hank sent down to the mess hall still not back yet.

“How is Erik?” Charles asks, keeping his voice low anyway. It’s only been a day since he spoke to Logan so logically he knows Erik’s condition probably hasn’t changed much, but Charles is still hungry for news regardless.

“I’m glad that he didn’t say it was you with the broken arm when he came into the medbay to fetch me,” Hank says frankly as he rips off a piece of tape to bind the bandages in place, “or otherwise I probably would’ve had to sedate Erik again to keep him from destroying the medbay and running up here. Anna Marie’s sitting with him again now.”

“Has he tried it before? Destroying the medbay, I mean?”

“It’s less of an intentional act and more of a byproduct of his temper,” Hank replies. He smoothes the tape down and sits back, Charles’ splint complete. “Yesterday he crumpled one of the other biobeds down to a microwaved-sized ball of scrap metal when Logan came back and told him what Shaw’s been doing to you.”

There’s no way for Charles to know how much Logan even told Erik, so Charles doesn’t comment even as his heart gives a painful twinge. “Better not tell him about my arm, then.” He feels almost guilty, lying by omission to Erik when it’s clear that Erik is only concerned about Charles’ welfare.

“I don’t plan to,” Hank says dryly, packing up his medkit. He glances at the elevator briefly before fixing Charles with his serious gaze. “Logan let me in on the plan with the e-pod. I want to get off this ship just as much as anyone, and I want to get _you_ off too, but Charles...are you sure?”

“Sure?” Charles stares at him. “I didn’t think that even warranted a question, Hank.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Hank waves a hand. “The original hope was to hold out for the Gulesson, remember, so we could somehow try to get a transmission back to IF Command. Escaping in an e-pod will certainly get you away from Shaw sooner, which don’t get me wrong, I’m completely for. But we’re not getting in that e-pod without Logan, Anna Marie, and Erik, and let’s not fool ourselves about who’s going to be in charge. You’re only going to be trading one monster for another, Charles, because don’t pretend you’re not going to end up right back with Erik.”

Even before Hank is finished speaking, Charles is shaking his head. “No. _No_ —Erik isn’t—it’s not like that.”

“Charles,” Hank says gently, “he’s been raping you for months now, and that isn’t going to change if we make it off the Serenity.”

“Shaw is _breaking_ my _bones_ ,” Charles snaps, his adrenaline picking up at the mere thought of staying here. Rationally he knows that there’s no way for Hank to know anything about Erik, or what’s gone on between Charles and Erik over the course of this entire hellish trip, but right now Charles is so far past rational thought towards anything involving Shaw, Hank might as well have just proposed that they get married. “You’d rather I’d stay here under _his_ thumb, so he can beat me bloody and rape me dry and then pass me around to all of his favorite followers for a turn?”

“Charles,” Hank says intently, lifting both hands in a gesture of calm but fortunately making no attempts towards trying to physically restrain him, “you know that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m only asking, which path leads to the greatest chance of survival? Staying here and waiting for the Gulesson, where we at least have a slim chance at getting a message to Command, or jetting ourselves out in an e-pod to go...where? Logan and Anna Marie are nice enough, but they’re still escaped convicts. Corellia isn’t exactly going to be on the top of their destination list.”

“If I stay here, I will die.” Charles knows this with the same amount of certainty that he knows two hydrogen and one oxygen make water—he’s known it from the start, but looking into the ensign’s glazed eyes this morning had only made it all the more real. He’ll become a shell of a person, just like the ensign, trapped and hopeless without any spark of life, and he’ll be used and used and _used_ until his body gives up and he can’t draw breath anymore. “Erik never wanted to fuck me. It was only because Shaw got involved that he—that we had to have sex every day, because otherwise Shaw would’ve taken me away from him and do what he’s done to me now.”

A half-lie at best: Erik never wanted to fuck Charles, at least not in the beginning. That’s evolved into another matter entirely, but Charles can’t exactly claim his hands are clean in that.

“I still don’t see how it isn’t trading one tyrant for another,” Hank says with a sigh. “Maybe Erik’s sworn that he didn’t want to sleep with you, but there’s no way you can tell for certain.”

“Erik would take my collar off when we were alone,” Charles says wearily, and thank _god_ Shaw hadn’t seen. If Erik had waited to put the collar back on Charles until right before he’d wanted to leave, or if Shaw and Azazel had appeared only a few seconds earlier…

Erik would be dead. Shaw would’ve snapped his neck in a heartbeat.

Hank’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Not long enough for your telepathy to come back.”

“You know that would take days, by this point,” Charles tells him, and Hank concedes with a nod. “I’ve seen what I would be like right now if Erik were just like Shaw. Erik doesn’t want to hurt me.”

“That may be,” Hank says quietly, “but will he let you go?”

Charles can only look back at him wordlessly, unable to answer. He can’t. Not for certain. All he has is the gut feeling that tells him Erik will rip the collar off him and throw it out an airlock just like he’d promised the moment they’re off the Serenity. They never discussed where they would all go after Logan’s friend picks them up. It would be all too easy for Erik to keep the collar on him and disappear into the deeper reaches of the OZs, Charles his unwilling companion and bedwarmer.

But Charles has to believe that Erik, the same Erik who lies in the medbay with grievous injuries and yet still fights for the chance to get up and come get Charles back from Shaw, the same Erik who was always so careful and gentle when he fucked Charles, even in the beginning when Charles thought him to be nothing more than his personal rapist, the same Erik who delighted in surprising Charles with the occasional meal of solid food instead of more nutri paste for rations, and the same Erik who fucked him up against the wall in their shower exactly how Charles wanted, would let him go home.

“Neither option is particularly promising,” Hank says heavily, and even though he’s technically won the argument he doesn’t look happy about it, “but if you trust Erik, that’s a slightly better hope instead of waiting to take our chances at the Gulesson.”

“I do,” Charles says, just as the elevator doors hiss open and his inmate guard troops back onto the bridge, putting an effective end to the conversation.

Hank clears his throat. “What took you so long?” he demands, striding over to the man and taking the plastic bowl out of his hands.

“Fuck off, Doc, it’s breakfast time and the line was long,” the inmate snaps, and retreats back over to the other side of the bridge.

“I bet you stopped to eat first before coming back,” Hank mutters loudly, returning to Charles’ side. The bowl is lukewarm when he hands it to Charles, and of course the inmate didn’t bring him any form of utensil. “Just try to drink as much of it as you can.”

A little panicked, thinking that Hank is about to leave and unwilling to part from his friend just yet Charles says quickly, “Do you mind rewrapping my left hand? Since it’s broken.” He meets Hank’s gaze meaningfully since there’s no telling if the inmate is actually listening or not.

“I have enough bandages for that,” Hank says neutrally, giving Charles a small nod. He bends to reopen his medkit and Charles has to hold in a sigh of relief. “Drink that, Charles, I mean it.”

Obediently, Charles lifts the bowl with his right hand and brings it up to his lips to take a careful sip. The oatmeal is fortunately watery enough to drink like this and cool enough not to burn his mouth as he slowly sips. He lets Hank take his left hand and unwrap the filthy shreds of cloth that Charles had kept wrapped around it before, dropping them to the floor for now.

“Anything else I need to look at while I’m here?” Hank asks him, clinically detached as he begins to wind the new bandage around Charles’ hand to match his arm, but when Charles glances up at him he mouths apologetically, _Bleeding?_

“No,” Charles answers, shaking his head, mouthing back, _Not yet_.

Hank’s hands are slower this time as he wraps Charles’ hand, taking his time and drawing it out as long as he can. “If you aren’t feeling well,” he says deliberately, “I might have to admit you to the medbay.”

There’s a split second where Charles is on the cusp of agreeing, relief swamping him at just the idea of Hank separating him from Shaw by necessity, but just as quickly, reality comes crashing back in to quash any hope. Shaw would never allow it, and even if he did, he’d surely visit the medbay often and that would put Erik back in his sights.

“No,” he says wearily, putting the bowl of oatmeal down only half finished. His stomach is too tied up in knots out of sheer stress to even contemplate eating more. “I feel fine.” He’s never told a less convincing lie in his entire life, the words like rust in his mouth, bitter and crumbling.

“Alright,” Hank says grimly in understanding, his mouth twisting unhappily. He tapes the bandage down on the back of Charles’ hand with the medical tape and sighs. “I don’t suppose you feel up to finishing that, do you?” he asks, nodding at the bowl.

Before Charles can answer the elevator doors hiss open and Shaw arrives on the bridge, Charles’ nerves spiking just at the sight of him. “Come here, Charles,” he says, stopping when he’s closed about half of the distance between them. He takes in Charles’ arm and hand with amusement, giving Hank a sardonic grin. “Good morning, Dr. McCoy.”

“Shaw,” Hank greets him warily, straightening slowly.

Charles gets to his feet carefully and slips past him, walking towards Shaw with his stomach sinking, well aware that whatever little show Shaw is about to put on, Hank is going to be watching. He stops when he’s still a few feet away from Shaw but Shaw’s grin only widens and he crooks a finger, so Charles has no choice but to walk right up to him.

“How is his arm, Doctor?” Shaw asks, reaching out to touch it. Charles is vastly grateful all over again for the numbing hypospray as Shaw’s fingers trace over the bandages.

“Broken,” Hank says flatly. A loud snap signifies he’s shut his medkit back up again.

“I don’t need a medical degree to know that,” Shaw says with a chuckle, releasing Charles’ arm. “Have you done your bridge duties, Charles?”

It’s a definite trap, but there’s no way out. “No,” Charles answers, “I had to hold still while Dr. McCoy—”

Shaw backhands him across the face so hard that Charles’ head whips sideways with a painful wrench in his neck and then he hits the deck, dazed and smarting from the blow. Hank lets out an angry shout and hurries forward but Shaw ignores him.

“You know better than to blame Dr. McCoy for your shortcomings,” he tells Charles, stepping over him and walking past Hank over to the pilot’s chair.

“Charles, are you alright?” Hank asks, crouching down beside him. His hands go immediately to Charles’ broken arm that he’d landed on, feeling out the limb as Charles rolls onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. “It still feels fine to me. Any pain?”

“Still numb,” Charles answers. His ears are ringing, his view of Hank’s face wavering as he leans over him. “Face hurts.”

“You’re going to have a bruise,” Hank says grimly after peering down at him for a moment. He sounds angry but his hands are gentle as he feels out Charles’ jaw and cheek. “Nothing broken, at least.”

“Come here, Charles.” Shaw sits in the pilot’s chair, legs sprawled lazily wide and smiling expectantly.

“For god’s sake,” Hank snaps angrily, rising to his feet with a low growl, “give him time to recover.”

“So sentimental, Dr. McCoy,” Shaw observes while Charles painstakingly sits up, shaking his head a little to clear it before pushing himself to his feet, “don’t tell me you were lovers before all this.” He waves a hand absently, as if that alone can describe the hostile takeover of the ship by the inmates that he planned and executed.

“Not everything is about sex,” Hank says acidly, offering Charles a hand to help pull him up the rest of the way, “a concept that seems to be a bit beyond you.”

“Hank,” Charles says, shooting a glance at Shaw. So far Shaw seems entertained by Hank’s temper, but there’s only so long you can poke an akk dog with a stick before it turns around and mauls you.

“I’m still waiting, Charles,” Shaw drawls, tilting his head back against the backrest of the chair with a smirk and gesturing to his lap.

Charles wishes his cheeks wouldn’t still burn the way they do now, flushing hot with anger and shame. It’s one thing for Shaw to make him do this while they’re alone or even when they’re in front of all his inmate followers, but in front of Hank is suddenly a million times worse.

Even so, he doesn’t have a choice. Slowly he walks towards Shaw, keeping his eyes averted from Hank while he passes him by and holding his broken arm pressed up against his chest protectively despite the fact that it’s still numb. Feet like lead weights, it takes Charles a small eternity to cross the scant few feet of distance between them, coming to a stop when he draws even with Shaw’s knees, unable to stomach willingly going any closer.

“Good boy.” Shaw reaches forward and snags Charles’ leash, using it to tug Charles closer between his legs. “Up you get.”

Clenching his teeth, Charles moves forward and haltingly climbs up onto Shaw’s lap, straddling his legs and then sliding forward when Shaw pulls him close, pressing their chests together with Charles’ broken arm trapped between them. Charles turns his head sideways and his chin ends up on Shaw’s shoulder, and at least this way he’s faced away from Hank and doesn’t have to see what kind of expression his friend is wearing as he watches this.

“So, Dr. McCoy,” Shaw says, sliding a hand up underneath Charles’ shirt to trace his fingers along Charles’ spine. Charles tenses, fighting back every instinct in his body screaming at him to get away—Shaw’s touch is light and gentle now, but if Charles tries to flinch away that will change in a heartbeat. “Tell me how Erik is doing. I do miss him, and I know Lieutenant Xavier does too.”

“Erik’s recovery progress is slow, as you’ve only allowed me to have the most rudimentary materials towards his care,” Hank answers, his voice tight and stilted, all but holding back another growl. Charles has never heard him sound so angry before. “It would go a lot quicker if you’d just let me—”

“Erik has a lot to think about while he heals,” Shaw interrupts, unconcerned. His hand travels further up Charles’ back, making his shirt ride up and exposing his skin to cold air. “I want to be certain that he has plenty of time to contemplate.”

“He’ll have it,” Hank says bitterly.

“Although,” Shaw says, drawing out the word slowly and tapping the center of Charles’ back thoughtfully, “I _am_ getting bored of waiting. Did Charles tell you our deal, Doctor? Erik gets to live so he can watch the first time I fuck Charles. Ah, but his expression will be so satisfying to see,” he says with a laugh, and Charles’ skin breaks out in goosebumps, “I just have to keep reminding myself.”

“You’re disgusting,” Hank says flatly, but there’s a small waver of horror in his voice.

“No, Doctor,” Shaw laughs again, turning to nuzzle against Charles’ neck while he drags his finger down the length of Charles’ spine, “I just know what I like. See that Dr. McCoy makes his way back to the medbay,” he says, addressing the inmate who still mans his post on the other side of the bridge, silent and watching, “I would hate for something to befall him when he still has so much more work to do for our friend Erik.”

Even as the inmate moves toward them, Hank says, “Let me leave Charles some painkillers. Once the hypospray I gave him wears off, he’ll be in pain still. At least let me give him something to take the edge off.”

“Of course,” Shaw says. “As long as he begs for them.” He punctuates the statement with a soft nip at Charles’ neck, making Charles jump. Shaw laughs, stroking his back mock-soothingly. “Then he can have them.”

“They’re here,” Hank growls, and Charles hears him slam something down on the console but doesn’t turn to look. He’s too ashamed, his hatred for Shaw nearly eclipsed by his own self-hatred for allowing Shaw to humiliate him like this, even though he logically knows there’s nothing he can do.

Hank leaves without another word, which only leaves Charles with a sense of relief; he has no doubt that if Hank tried to speak to him, Shaw would somehow include himself in the conversation and humiliate Charles further. It also means, however, that now he and Shaw are alone on the bridge and any relief Charles has dissipates faster than Azazel’s smoke.

“And now what shall we do with the rest of our day, Charles?” Shaw asks him. His hand still strokes up and down along Charles’ spine, the motion absent yet sickening in how a monster like Shaw is even capable of being so gentle, even falsely.

For his part, Charles remains limply in place, even while his entire body tingles with revulsion at this faux, forced intimacy and anxiety at how vulnerable he currently is on Shaw’s lap. He’s practically sweating with nerves, legs held open wide where he straddles Shaw’s crotch while Shaw traces out each of his individual vertebra with fingers that could snap Charles in half easy as breathing. Shaw’s threatened to do it before. He could do it right now.

“Sit up,” Shaw orders, both hands now gripping Charles’ hips bruisingly tight, and Charles is yanked backwards so that his weight no longer falls against Shaw’s chest, made to balance awkwardly while Shaw begins to rock upwards, his cock hard in his pants. “Roll your hips down, like this—”

His hands on Charles’ hips sear like brands as Shaw makes Charles grind down against him, bucking up to rub himself off against Charles like all the times before. Charles goes as directed, swaying in Shaw’s grasp as he’s made to rock against him, closing his eyes and swallowing down the lump in his throat as Shaw’s breathy panting fills the air. Five more days.

When he’s close Shaw thrusts a hand down between them to pull his cock out of his pants, pumping himself the rest of the way to completion and splattering Charles’ front with wet, sticky come. Shaw reclines back in the chair with a satisfied sigh while Charles continues to balance in his lap, stiff and awkward and trying not to shudder in disgust. His legs have fallen asleep, pins and needles prickling uncomfortably beneath his skin but he doesn’t dare try to move, staring off out the main viewscreen into deep space over Shaw’s shoulder.

“Do your job, Lieutenant,” Shaw says at last, giving Charles’ hip a harsh squeeze.

Clambering back out of Shaw’s lap is easier said than done but Charles manages to get back up to his feet without falling, only stumbling a couple paces once he’s standing on his still-prickling legs. His knees are sore as he totters over to the other console, logging himself in and opening several screens at once, numbers flashing before his eyes that he doesn’t really take in. It doesn’t matter to him anymore how the Serenity’s systems are functioning. In five days he’ll never set foot on this godforsaken ship ever again.

A small, cursory check ensures that nothing is about to go supercritical, and then Charles moves over to the navigation table. He pulls up the 3D star chart, shifting the hologram around so that the Serenity’s course extends across the table in front of him, watching her little green dot moving slowly, relatively, through space. She’s coming up on another debris field, a huge mass of scattered rock and dust that the computer tells him is the remnants from a star that went supernova and took out its entire system based on the radiation levels from some twenty thousand years ago: a mere blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things.

Maneuvering through it is going to be cause for a headache, but Charles can hardly wait; they’ll reach the field in two days and it means he’ll have to stay up on the bridge for the entire duration as he’s the only fully-qualified pilot left, so it’ll be up to him to navigate their way through. A whole day spent away from Shaw. It’s like Christmas and his birthday rolled into one.

After brief consideration, Charles decides not to mention it yet. Better to spring it on Shaw at the last possible moment so he doesn’t have time to come up with some kind of contingency plan and will be forced to leave Charles on the bridge all day.

The rest of the day is spent much like the day before, Charles towed along behind Shaw while he makes his rounds of the ship before ending up back in the gym on his pseudo-throne. By this point the hypospray has worn off and Charles’ entire body is filled with a dull, throbbing ache originating from his arm, but it’s nothing like the pain from before his bone had been set. This time Charles is left to kneel at Shaw’s feet and is largely ignored, Shaw preoccupied with settling disputes between some of the inmates over food or fucktoys, so he lets his mind drift, immersing himself in the continuous, low-level pain and practically dozing with his eyes open out of bone-deep exhaustion.

Even when Shaw drops a hand down to pet Charles’ hair, stroking his head like a dog, Charles doesn’t react. Shaw even says something to him, mocking laughter coming from the inmates standing in front of the platform, but the words are far away, like an Old Earth radio transmission that’s traveled across the cosmos for millions of light years at the wrong frequency for Charles to pick up.

At dinner Charles ends up on the floor again, pressed down flat on his belly with Shaw’s heels digging into his back. It’s only relieving, however, because it means he’s underneath the table and is ignored again, tucked mostly out of sight and the only thing he has to worry about being keeping his broken arm from being kicked or stepped on by anyone else sitting at Shaw’s table. Essex is there, but Charles tunes out whatever he and Shaw are saying.

There’s another boy on the floor too, stark naked and like the ensign in Shaw’s room, his eyes are glazed-over and blank. He doesn’t even look at Charles, lying in the crumpled position he was pushed down into when the inmate he belongs to kicked his legs out from underneath him to get him to go down. Out of respect tinged with helpless pity, Charles doesn’t stare at him either, even when halfway through dinner the inmate reaches down and grabs the boy by the chin, guiding him up to suck his cock while he continues to eat, the muffled choking sounds and wet slurps loud in the relative quiet beneath the table.

Closing his eyes, Charles imagines that he’s under the dinner table with Raven at one of the fancy society parties his mother used to drag them to when they were young, only to completely ignore them once they were there. He and Raven used to hide by crouching under the table, hidden from sight by the long, draping tablecloth, and content to amuse themselves with coloring pads and playing charades—first to laugh out loud at the ridiculous expression the other wore loses. They got away with it, too, for a short number of years, until Charles was around nine or ten years old when his mother decided he needed to sit up at the table and have conversations with the adults. The parties stopped being as fun after that, and Raven was usually sullen with him for a full day afterwards because of how he’d had to ignore her, but revisiting his memories of those earlier parties is a far happier place to be than where he is now, facedown on the floor beneath a madman’s boot.

Unbidden tears prick at the corners of Charles’ eyes while the other boy begins to choke on the cock in his mouth, the inmate no doubt coming hard down his throat. He wants to go _home_ , with a longing so fierce and desperate that he can taste it, sharp like glass in his mouth. He’s so close now to escaping. So close.

Shaw’s heel grinds down into his back hard enough to make Charles wince, opening his eyes and blinking rapidly to clear the tears away. The last thing he needs is for Shaw to see him getting weepy, as he’ll only use it as an opportunity to dig into Charles deeper, but fortunately it seems he isn’t getting ready to leave, just shifting in his seat.

The other boy pulls back off his master’s cock with a ragged gasp, coughing as he collapses down at the man’s feet. A small dribble of come leaks out of the corner of his mouth.

It’s cold on the floor, and by the time Shaw is finally ready to leave Charles is stiff and has a hard time getting up onto his knees so he can crawl out from underneath the table when Shaw pulls on his leash. The other boy is merely dragged out by the hair.

Charles hobbles on three limbs, keeping his left arm pressed up against chest. His ribs are aching again, twinging harshly enough to make him gasp as he emerges into the bright fluorescent lights of the mess hall, screwing up his eyes while waiting for them to adjust. He puts his right hand on the seat of Shaw’s chair and levers himself up onto shaky legs, breathing carefully and stifling a groan.

“There you are, Charles,” Shaw says, smiling at him. Essex and his men are already leaving, only inmates remaining. “You were so quiet down there I nearly forgot you were here until just now.”

Charles doesn’t bother answering, staring at Shaw warily. He’s dead on his feet and not in the mood for any of the little games Shaw likes to play, but he braces himself anyway for whatever’s coming.

Behind him the other boy is slammed face down onto the table loudly enough to make Charles flinch away, whirling around with his shoulders hunched with the instinctive fear that he’ll be next. Shaw laughs, reeling him in with the leash and plastering himself up against Charles from behind as the other boy’s legs are wrenched apart and one of the inmates steps forward to push his cock into the unprotesting body, snapping his hips forward and fucking his victim right in the middle of the mess hall.

“That’ll be you one day,” Shaw says in Charles’ ear, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold Charles back against himself so Charles can’t turn away and is forced to watch. The boy doesn’t even groan even though he has to be in pain, lying where he’s been forced down while his whole body rocks forward on the table with every thrust. “Just a tight little hole for me to fuck whenever I want.”

_No I won’t_ , Charles thinks viciously, his face a blank mask, burying his everlasting horror as deeply as he can where Shaw can’t see it. _No I won’t_.

The first inmate finishes, slamming his cock deep into the ensign’s ass with a grunt. He pulls out and another inmate steps forward to take his place, pumping himself lazily in preparation before shoving in. Charles swallows bile, hot and sour in the back of his throat, and closes his eyes.

“Come,” Shaw says at last, drawing Charles away, “we have our own little boy to take care of.”

“What about my shift on the bridge,” Charles blurts out without entirely meaning to, and even though it’s long past the time Erik usually brought him up to the bridge for his shift. But if there’s one thing Charles doesn’t want to be a part of, it’s playing any part in helping Shaw hurt that poor kid.

“You did your shift this morning,” Shaw says dismissively, steering him towards the mess hall doors, “it’s playtime.”

Charles shudders, which only makes Shaw laugh.

The ensign is curled up in the corner of the room when Shaw and Charles reenter the quarters—not on the bed, not even on the couch or in one of the easy chairs, but in the corner, in a tight little ball that makes Charles want to run over to him and put his body in front of him and shield him from Shaw. But Charles can’t do a thing, not when Shaw already has a firm grip on his elbow and is pulling him towards the bed.

“On your back in the center of the bed, Charles,” Shaw says, letting go of him only to shove him forward sharply so that Charles stumbles the last few paces, “we’ll be right with you.”

Feeling sick, Charles does as he’s told, climbing up onto the bed and lying back to stare up at the ceiling, brimming with the awful, constant mix of fear and hate. He does his best to tune out the sounds drifting over from the other side of the room, of clothes being taken off and dropped to the floor, to the soft thud of knees hitting the carpet, and Shaw’s blase order, “Lick me,” followed by soft, wet sounds as the ensign obeys.

The cold has seeped permanently into his bones, and despite the fact that he’s lying out on a soft comforter Charles is shivering, small tremors that make him wince every time they make his ribs twinge. He tries to remember what it felt like to be pressed up against Erik, warm and safe in his arms, and even though it was only two days ago, Charles can’t quite recall the exact sensation and draws in a small, ragged gasp for breath to stave off the panic that suddenly bubbles up in his chest.

“Enough,” Shaw says abruptly, and there’s the sound of a slap followed by another soft thump as the ensign tumbles backwards onto the floor. Footsteps approach the bed and Charles tenses, even as he continues to shiver, jumping when a hand closes around his ankle like a vise and Shaw’s face comes into view, smiling down at him. “Get up,” he says, addressing the ensign, “come get on top of Charles and warm him up.”

“Don’t,” Charles says as across the room the ensign starts to pick himself up, “please don’t—”

“If you move, I’ll break his leg,” Shaw says amicably, sliding his hand up to pat Charles’ shin, “and he won’t be getting a splint from Dr. McCoy.”

The ensign reaches the bed and clambers up onto the mattress, crawling forward until he’s on his hands and knees over Charles. Charles keeps his gaze locked on the ceiling, even when Shaw puts a hand on the ensign’s upper back and presses down so the ensign folds down onto his elbows, his chest pressed flat against Charles’ with his ass still up in the air.

“Good,” Shaw says, stepping back to admire them. “Stay still now, pets.” He walks over into the bathroom, shedding his shirt as he goes.

The boy might as well be dead weight on top of Charles for all he moves, only his soft exhales against Charles’ shirt giving any indication that he’s even still alive. Charles lies stiff and tense beneath him, and it’d be so easy to push him off and retreat to the furthest corner of the room, refuse to take part in the sick game Shaw is playing, only he can’t. Shaw _will_ break the ensign’s leg, _will_ deny him any medical attention, and Charles can’t stomach the thought of being party to causing the poor kid that level of pain.

Only...what’s going to happen to him once Charles makes his escape? The thought fills Charles with a new kind of horror, and he glances down briefly at the top of the kid’s head. Shaw will be furious, incandescent with rage, and the ensign will be his first and easiest target. Charles can’t leave the boy behind when it comes time to run, he realizes, because that would be leaving him to a fate worse than death. He has to take the ensign with him. It’s the least he can do.

The mattress dips when Shaw returns and climbs up onto the bed, naked now and stroking his thick cock with one hand. He pulls Charles’ legs apart and settles in between them, right behind the ensign and gazes down at them both with hooded eyes.

“My two little boys,” he says with a laugh, and it takes all of Charles’ might not to lash out at him with his good arm. It would only be a futile attempt—he’d end up with another broken arm at best. “Kevin, be a good boy and rub against Charles. Friction creates warmth and we don’t want Charles to be cold.”

The ensign—Kevin, Charles finally knows—does as he’s told, rocking against Charles and rubbing himself up against Charles’ filthy, semen-stained shirt. Charles grits his teeth, _glad_ for the tiny bursts of pain in his ribs that the motion evokes, because it gives him the chance to concentrate on something other than this.

Shaw settles his hands on Kevin’s hips and pushes his cock into him in one thrust, jolting his entire body on top of Charles and making the ensign give a small whimper of pain. Charles sucks in a sharp breath when Shaw leans all the way down, his added weight hell on Charles’ ribs as he plasters his chest to Kevin’s back so his face is just above Kevin’s shoulder, inches from Charles’.

“Keep moving,” he orders, giving Kevin’s flank a light slap, and the ensign obeys, rocking between Shaw and Charles mindlessly. Shaw rolls his hips forward at uneven intervals, smashing him forward onto Charles, keeping them both trapped in place beneath him. “Charles, oh Charles,” he says, reaching down with one hand to pat Charles’ cheek, “I see you trying to zone out on me.”

Charles jerks his head away from Shaw’s touch. “You’re sick,” he spits, glaring up at him, “just finish this already and get _away_ from me.”

“There he is,” Shaw laughs, and then snaps his hips forward so hard that Kevin groans and Charles’ breath cuts short. “I’m being very considerate. I could have made you strip down too. Or I could have Kevin start kissing you, would you like that?” He grabs a fistful of Kevin’s hair and wrenches his head back, so Charles is looking up into the ensign’s blank eyes.

“No,” Charles says, shaking his head. His legs twitch, longing to dig his feet into the mattress and push himself backwards to slide out from underneath them. “God—he’s just a _kid_ , why are you—”

“You’re so sentimental,” Shaw observes, pushing Kevin’s head back down so that he’s pressed face-first into Charles’ chest again. “I could hold this boy’s life— _Erik’s_ life, over your head, and you’d do anything I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck you,” Charles snaps bitterly, even though it’s true; Shaw is well aware of his biggest weakness. “Because I’m not a _monster_ like y—”

Shaw’s hand closes around his throat above the collar, holding Charles down against the mattress and squeezing until Charles begins to choke. “Oh, I will be,” he murmurs as Charles starts to thrash, legs kicking wildly until Shaw adjusts his position so he straddles Charles’ legs to keep them pinned, “and I’m going to enjoy making you take my cock.”

Charles’ back arches, trying in vain to rear up and break Shaw’s hold, but the motion only serves to shove Kevin, still on top of Charles and trapped between them, further back against Shaw. The ensign groans but Charles barely hears him, lost to panic as he repeatedly tries to draw in breath but fails. His right hand flies up to claw weakly at Shaw’s arm and his left hand is good for little more than batting at Shaw, sending spikes of pain shooting up Charles’ broken arm, but to little effect: Charles might as well be a kitten pawing at a Great Dane.

Black spots dance across his vision that’s beginning to tunnel and Charles thrashes again beneath Kevin and Shaw in panic, his chest tight enough to burst and he _can’t breathe_ —

Shaw loosens his grip and it’s just enough for Charles to draw in a ragged gasp of air, chest heaving as he falls limp beneath them and pants. His heart is pounding, beating so hard in fear and pain that he’s irrationally afraid it might explode. Wetness leaks out of the corners of his eyes and Charles coughs, harsh and jagged against his sore throat.

Above him, Shaw grins. “Lovely,” he says, thrusting ruthlessly into Kevin and bearing down on them both, crushing and absolute. “I’ll have you begging prettily for my cock by the time I’m done with you.”

Before Charles can even think to respond Shaw tightens his grip again, cutting off Charles’ air once more. Charles bucks up against Kevin, struggling mindlessly, and so things proceed. Shaw chokes him off and on, never in predictable intervals, sometimes squeezing his throat long enough for Charles to black out for a second or two, and other times only for short, brief moments as he continues thrusting into the ensign trapped between them. Sometimes he lets Charles cough, gasping and sucking in multiple, desperate breaths of air, and then he gets into the habit of releasing Charles’ throat for only a split second, just barely long enough for Charles to suck in a tiny amount of air, and watches with clinical fascination as Charles writhes.

Eventually Charles is too weak to even fight back, going utterly limp on the bed as Shaw’s fingers dig relentlessly into his throat. Shaw fucks into Kevin with a brutal pace now, but for Charles the moving bodies above him seem far away, unable to even see Shaw’s face anymore as the world starts to grow dimmer and dimmer as his consciousness slips away.

His mouth has fallen open, pleading soundlessly for air but to no avail, and darkness rushes in to overtake him completely at last.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More thanks to the awesome somethingunholy, who has gifted us with so many amazing graphics to go along with the fanmixes. Browse through all of them [here](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/tagged/somethingunholy).
> 
> A couple of matters of business: first off, please be civil in the comment section, as otherwise it puts us in a very awkward position. Thanks!
> 
> Secondly, and more relevant to the fic itself: please keep in mind that at this point in the fic, Charles isn't thinking very straight and it would be wildly unrealistic if he was. Proceed with caution!

When he wakes Charles’ mouth is dry and tastes like it’s been coated with a thin layer of blood, sharp and tangy in his throat. He makes the mistake of trying to swallow to clear some of the taste away but ends up involuntarily whimpering, loud in the dark silence of the room, when his throat protests violently, as if he’s tried swallowing broken glass.

He’s been shoved to the end of the bed, on his back with Kevin half-collapsed on top of him, still naked and limp with sleep and the deadweight of utter exhaustion. Shaw might as well have piled boulders on top of Charles to keep him in place for all that he’s able to move Kevin, too drained to do more than push ineffectually at the ensign’s shoulder once before giving up.

Tilting his head the right way grants him a view of the holodisplay on the nightstand to make out the numbers 0611 through his blurry vision. Shaw is still fast asleep, sprawled out like a king beneath the sheets, and Charles can’t stand the sight of him for long, moving his gaze to stare up blankly at the ceiling through the dark.

He lets his mind wander, keeping his head overall blank while he distantly drifts from nonsensical thought to nonsensical thought. He fixates on Raven for a long while, forming a clear mental picture of her that’s as detailed as possible, down to how he knows the sun plays off her blue scales. He adds Irene too, picturing her standing next to Raven with their arms linked together, with her kind smile and laughter lines bunched at the corners of her eyes. For a moment the picture of them hovers in his mind, so real that Charles nearly wants to reach out to grip his sister’s hand, lump in his throat and heart aching. He tries to picture Raven holding her baby and almost sobs aloud when he can’t, overtaken by a sharp burst of irrational panic that causes the image of Raven and Irene to pop out of existence like a soap bubble, leaving him alone in the dark and struggling to control his rasping breathing to keep from hyperventilating or waking Shaw.

His ribs ache and his arm throbs and his throat feels like he lit it on fire last night and has been left with only charred remains, but Charles doesn’t react to any of the pain, holding it all in and regulating his breaths back to his slow, steady in-out, in-out until his vision stops wavering. Mentally Charles presses himself up against the heavy, unyielding block that stands between him and his telepathy, battering feverishly at the silence in his head despite the futility until he’s too exhausted to think about Raven anymore.

He thinks about Erik instead, and how he has to buckle down and continue enduring this for Erik’s sake.

An hour passes before Shaw stirs, sitting up and stretching with a loud yawn. Charles can feel Shaw’s grin as he looks Charles and Kevin both over but keeps his own eyes locked on the ceiling, even when Shaw nudges him with his foot beneath the blankets.

“Good morning, Charles,” Shaw greets him, sliding up out of the bed, and then mercifully heads into the bathroom and starts up the shower.

Too tired to move, Charles stays where he is all throughout Shaw’s shower. Kevin doesn’t wake at all, out cold but at least still breathing, even with his face mashed somewhere in the blankets above Charles’ shoulder. Another day. Just another day to survive. Shaw emerges from the bathroom at last, fully dressed and toweling off his hair, dropping the towel to the floor when he’s done.

“Can you speak?” he asks Charles, rummaging through one of the desk drawers.

Charles opens his mouth to try to answer, but no sound comes out and he ends up coughing, turning his head sideways to spit up a pathetic amount of spittle that’s stained red.

“No?” Shaw asks, amused, as he turns back around and approaches the bed. He strokes Charles’ cheek. “That’s alright. It’s not like I’m keeping you around for the sake of conversation.”

Charles glares at him, leaning away from Shaw’s hand as much as he can manage. Shaw follows him, giving him a light slap.

“Don’t be insolent.” He grabs Kevin’s arm and drags him off of Charles, all the way off the side of the bed so that the ensign crashes down to the floor in a heap. “Sit up.”

It takes Charles two attempts but he manages to obey, levering himself upright and drawing in a sharp breath at how his ribs let him know they don’t appreciate the movement. Gingerly he scoots over to the edge of the bed and is gathering up the strength and willpower to stand when Shaw stops him, stepping in front of him and holding out an upturned palm.

On closer inspection, Charles realizes that Shaw is holding one of the painkiller pills from Hank, small and innocuous in his hand. Charles suddenly wants it with a near-desperate, burning need, but he doesn’t dare reach for it, not with the way Shaw is smiling at him.

“Don’t worry, Charles, I’m going to let you have it,” Shaw says, laughing at Charles’ look of trepidation, “we need you functional on the bridge, after all.”

Charles lifts an eyebrow, because there’s no way this isn’t going to come without strings attached.

“Well go on,” Shaw says silkily, “lick it up out of my hand.”

Not as bad as he’d been expecting, but still humiliating. Charles lets out a breath, wishing he could wipe the smirk right off Shaw’s face, but the fact of the matter remains: he needs to take that pill. He needs a clear head if he’s going to survive the rest of the day, and he isn’t going to have that unless the pain in his arm, ribs, and throat is dampened for awhile.

Hesitantly, Charles leans forward, leery of Shaw pulling his hand back at the last second to send him toppling forward. Shaw keeps his hand steadily where it is, though, and holding back a shiver of disgust Charles laps at Shaw’s palm to lick the pill up with his tongue, drawing it quickly into his mouth. He means to lean away but Shaw’s other hand drops down on the back of his head, holding him down in place so Charles is forced to swallow the pill there while Shaw rubs his palm lightly back and forth across his nose and lips, fingers hooking beneath Charles’ chin.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, dragging his fingernails across Charles’ scalp and Charles jerks away from him, stomach twisting in revulsion. Shaw lets him go with another laugh, absently wiping his hand against the side of his pants. “You have two minutes in the bathroom. Leave the door open.”

Stumbling to his feet Charles edges away from Shaw and makes a beeline for the bathroom, almost tripping over the doorway. He doesn’t have to relieve himself—there’s nothing in his stomach, hunger the last thing on his mind—but he does turn the sink on, letting the water run continuously as he scoops palmfuls of it up to his mouth and swirls it around before spitting it out. He does this again and again until the water is no longer tinged red, and then he makes himself drink, his thirst great enough to overcome the pain in his throat.

To avoid having to look at himself in the mirror, Charles keeps his head down as he splashes water across his face once he’s drank his fill, scrubbing at his skin. He can already feel the pill kicking in, a wonderful numbness starting to spread through his body and blanking out the pain. Thank god for modern technology. Luckily the pill isn’t the same kind Hank gave him what seems like a year ago now, back when Charles was stuck with Erik and believed that he needed to take something in order to help get himself through having sex, so Charles’ mind stays clear.

He feels a little more alive and a little less hopeless when he straightens though he still keeps his gaze away from the mirror, turning quickly to wipe his face off on a dry towel.

“Charles,” Shaw calls in a singsong voice, and Charles hurries out of the bathroom.

Kevin is still unconscious on the floor by the bed but Shaw waits by the door, so Charles steps around the ensign and goes to him. Shaw takes his leash and leads him out into the corridor, and this time Charles makes sure to pay attention as Shaw types in the code on the wall panel to lock the room, memorizing the 5-digit number. He’s going to need it very soon, after all.

Quickly he pushes those thoughts down and away. He has to focus on surviving till then first.

The elevator ride up to the bridge is mostly silent, Shaw absently winding Charles’ leash around his wrist slowly, eating up the slack so Charles is forced closer to him one step at a time. By the time the doors open again Charles is all but plastered against Shaw’s side, and Shaw wraps an arm around him tightly to give him a meaningful squeeze.

“Behave yourself, Charles,” he murmurs in Charles’ ear, hot and breathy to make Charles shudder, “or tonight I’ll show you just how well our little ensign can take a fist.”

Then he unwinds the leash and pushes Charles out of the elevator and onto the bridge, the doors hissing shut between them. Charles nearly sighs in relief. He’s finally alone, save for his usual inmate watchdog who only stares at him silently from across the room. Charles walks over to the pilot’s chair and sinks down into it, pulling up the console’s holoscreen and logging himself in to take a look at the Serenity’s course.

The signs of the approaching debris field come upon them slowly enough that to the inexperienced eye, it would appear that the Serenity is still cruising through clear, calm space. But Charles is hardly inexperienced, and as the sensors start to record slightly elevated density readings, he dismisses the early alarm and disables the advance warning system. A survey of the sensor readings helps him construct a general shape of the debris field in his head, and he figures they won’t be able to physically see it until it’s already too late to alter course.

Piloting is a tricky business all on its own; piloting a ship as large as the Serenity through an expanse of rocky space debris would be a challenge for even an experienced pilot. Without Charles at the helm, it would be nearly impossible for the Serenity to navigate the field quickly, not without risking some heavy damage at least. If there were ever an optimal time to put their escape plan into action, now is it.

But there are a couple of snags that he spends the morning mulling over. The first is that he’s the only one who knows they’ll be within the debris field in the next day or so, and none of this is going to work if the others aren’t prepared. He’s not sure how to get a message to the others when he’s being watched every minute of the day, if not by Shaw then by one of his lackeys.

Maybe if he begs, Shaw will let Hank come back and tend to him. It wouldn’t be difficult to fake debilitating pain—Hank had only given him a handful of drugs, and between Charles’ arm and his throat, he’s not sure how long that supply will last him. His arm under the splint aches uncomfortably, and his ribs are still sore enough that it hurts to draw in too deep a breath. Just the thought of running out of painkillers makes him queasy. If he throws up, maybe Shaw will have Hank come and look him over, even if only for a few seconds.

But he doesn’t like hinging their entire plan on _maybes._ Shaw is as unpredictable as he is cruel. There’s got to be a more definitive way to get the word out.

The second snag is that he has no idea if it’s even possible for Alex and Darwin to finish the pod in time for tomorrow as it is. According to their original timetable, Logan said they needed a week. It’s only been three days; tomorrow is only day four. There’s nothing for it, though—the debris field is the best chance they have to launch the pod, if they wait the full week the Serenity will have long since cleared the field and it will be easier for Shaw to chase them down. The Serenity’s mobility will be limited in the field because of her size, so it offers the perfect cover for them to get away in a smaller pod. Surely the pod is finished enough by now for them all to be able to survive the extra three days it’ll take for Logan’s friend to show up and collect them—that’s all they’ll have to do, after. Hang on for those three days.

When he sneaks a glance over to the other inmate on the bridge, the man is sitting by the navigation table playing with one of the screens. Literally playing—he’s got a puzzle game running, one of the kinds that crewmembers play during their downtimes. The man looks utterly engrossed in the flashing symbols, which gives Charles a little confidence as he surreptitiously pulls up a comm screen and enters his credentials.

Though the external comm system to be used to contact long-distance locations has long since been disabled, the intra-ship comm system is still fully functional. To prevent crewmembers from erasing signs of wrongdoing or accidentally destroying logs that might one day be evidence, none of the messages sent on the intra-ship comms can be deleted without a captain’s passcode. All Shaw needs to do is pull up the console’s history and he’ll see exactly what Charles has sent, and to whom. But hopefully by the time he thinks to check, Charles and the others will be long gone, jetting across OZ space on their way home.

Turning his chair to shield the screen from view as much as he can, Charles peeks over his shoulder again. The inmate is still distracted, so he takes the chance to type rapidly [ _can e-pod be ready for tomorrow?_ ] and, after a moment of deliberation, sends the message zipping off to H_MCCOY. Medbay is undoubtedly more private than engineering, and there’s a smaller chance someone will happen to intercept the message. Hopefully Logan’s there to sit with Erik, or maybe Anna Marie.

As soon as Charles hits send, however, he’s struck by how bad an idea it was. Though he’d sent the comm to Hank’s private terminal in his office, there’s no telling who else is in medbay. What if one of the inmates was given Hank’s terminal to use? What if Hank left his unlocked terminal unattended for even a minute to attend to some patient? God, Charles should have given the message at least a rudimentary encryption. How could he be so fucking _stupid_?

Before he can really get himself worked up, a green icon blinks at the bottom of his screen, indicating a new message. Heart pounding, he makes sure the inmate is still turned away before pulling up the comm screen.

[ _Probably_ ], Hank has written. [ _Logan says least 80% done now. Are we moving up the timetable?_ ]

Charles’ fingers fly over the screen in his haste to answer. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and his pulse thumps unevenly in his ears. Any moment now Shaw could walk in. Any moment now, Azazel could appear and catch Charles in the act, and Shaw would kill him. Charles has absolutely no doubts that being caught now would be a death sentence. Shaw had been so furious about Ramirez’s suicide; if he discovers an escape plan has been brewing under his nose…Charles shudders to consider the consequences.

[ _entering debris tmrrw_ ], he sends back. [ _good time to go. logan’s friend?_ ]

There’s a long, agonizing pause that lasts several minutes before a reply comes: [ _Forward this message out to enclosed frequency. Time tomorrow?_ ] Underneath there’s a short line of encrypted text and transmission frequency that must be meant for Logan’s friend.

Charles glances through the sensor readings again. The edges of debris fields are never clean, but he can make a good guess at this area’s borders. [ _approx 1330_ ], he sends. After a moment’s hesitation, he adds, [ _is erik ok to move?_ ] Excellent opportunity or not, they’re not going if Erik isn’t well enough to come with them. Charles would rather wait for the Gulesson than risk Erik’s life by moving him if his condition is that serious.

But thankfully, Hank says, [ _Fine. Meet you in medbay at 1330._ ]

[ _done._ ]

Letting out a long breath, Charles shuts the comm and pulls up an outgoing transmission screen, pasting Logan’s text into the body before sending it off. Once he’s punched in his credentials to approve the command and the transmission’s safely sent out, he spends the next few minutes doing his best to obscure the message trail in the internal commline. He might not be able to delete his and Hank’s conversation completely but he can blur the history so that it’ll take some time to track whoever was on the other end of his transmissions. He’s never been particularly adept at computer science—that was always Moira’s division when they’d studied together; she could make computers do things that made his head spin—but he knows enough to hopefully make it difficult for Shaw to locate the recipient. He writes some code that’s probably badly convoluted, inserts it into the message retrieval program, and then shuts down all related screens.

The inmate behind him curses under his breath as he loses the level he’s on. With his elation at even this tiny victory, it’s almost impossible for Charles to turn his attention back to his normal bridge duties. They could be gone from this ship in less than twenty-four hours. At this time tomorrow, they might be free.

He has to fight not to get his hopes up, but still, his yearning mind wanders. When this is all over, he’s going to barricade himself in his apartment and sleep for a year straight. He’s never going to eat any food that comes out of a tube or a can again. He’s going to swear off sex forever and ever, and he’s going to kiss Raven and Irene and the baby soundly, and he’s going to go to the beach and stick his toes in the sand, and he’s going to throw himself into the water and swim until he’s too exhausted to hold himself afloat anymore. He’s going to do whatever the fuck he wants because he _can_.

And Erik…

He tries to imagine Erik fitting in in scenes from his old life—sitting in his living room, reading in the café across the street, walking among the terminals of Amiari Space Bay—and can’t. Erik doesn’t belong in a clean, clear-cut society like a Federation planet. He’s too…foreign. Too _wild_.

They came together under extraordinary circumstances. It’s almost impossible to imagine their relationship existing outside of the lawless, brutal world of the Serenity. Despite their missteps here and there and their rather hostile beginnings, they’ve worked so well together because they needed each other to survive. What happens when that’s no longer true?

His chest feels hollow at the thought. Erik would never be so callous as to throw him away once he’s no longer strictly needed. He’s more than a tool to Erik, that’s not a question. But just because he might mean something to Erik doesn’t mean Erik would ever agree to their staying together. The last thing Charles should expect from the traumatizing fuck-up that this mission has become is a committed relationship. It sounds utterly daft to even think it.

And yet, it hurts to think of letting Erik go. It’s going to be hard saying goodbye, knowing full-well he’ll likely never see Erik again. Space is just too big for their orbits to cross paths, and Erik, criminal that he is, knows to avoid any place Charles might call home. Tomorrow, everything—this thing between them included—will be over. He’s torn between devastating relief and a deep sadness.

Don’t think about it, he tells himself as he reexamines the sensor readings for their plotted path. He can’t afford to let himself be distracted by anything now, even Erik. Especially Erik.

He spends the rest of his shift messing with the homing beacon. It’s been disabled since the prison break, and a quick glance at the program reveals that it can’t be turned back on with a simple command; the whole function’s been wrecked by swaths of randomly deleted code that renders the beacon essentially useless. It’s too complicated for Charles to try repairing, even if he had days to do it.

Frustration and guilt swell up in his chest. If they can’t track the Serenity, IF Command won’t be able to send rescuers after her. Leaving this ship will be as good as leaving the rest of the crew to die.

Logically, he knows they can’t save everyone. But it kills him that that’s the reality.

Shaw comes to fetch him at the end of his shift and takes him back to his quarters, where he makes Charles kneel beside his desk as he works at the holoscreen. Poor Kevin is huddled on the ground at the foot of the bed, mercifully dressed but looking thinner and more gaunt than ever. Everything Shaw is doing to the boy is killing him slowly. He’s not going to last much longer on this ship either.

That night, after Shaw has had his fill of Kevin, he asks, “Where are you from, Lieutenant?”  

He’s sitting on the bed, idly picking at a container of dried fruit as Charles lies curled up at the foot of the bed. Kevin is on the floor, naked and unmoving. There are vicious, finger-shaped bruises starting to form on his ribs from where Shaw gripped him too tightly. Part of Charles wants to slide off the bed to make sure the boy is still breathing, but his arm hurts like hell and the thought of having to shift even an inch is unbearable.

Shaw’s foot nudges his leg. “Don’t ignore me, Charles. I asked you a question.”

Charles glares at him, knowing that Shaw knows full well that speaking is agony for him right now. But Shaw only stares steadily back and, reluctantly, Charles whispers, “Corellia.”

“But you weren’t born there, were you?” Shaw rolls a raisin between his fingers for a moment before popping it into his mouth. “I looked through your personnel files. You’re from Old Earth—New York, to be precise. Exactly how rich is the Xavier family, Lieutenant? How much of a ransom do you think I’d fetch if I put the word out that I had you?”

Charles is so surprised by the prospect that he makes a weak sound between a snort and a laugh. A ransom. Shaw would have better luck banging on the doors of the IF Treasury.  

“Not much, I imagine,” Shaw says, his gaze amused as it traces over Charles. “No man with that sort of wealth would throw it away to be the military’s dog. Did Mommy and Daddy cut you off, Lieutenant? Or maybe you had some bad habits yourself—drinking? Too fond of the cards?”

Small talk, he realizes after a moment. Shaw is trying to make _small talk_ , of all things. God, can this situation get any more bizarre?

After a moment, Shaw leans over to the nightstand and rummages around in the drawer for a few seconds before sitting back up. When he opens his hand, one of the painkilling pills lies in his palm.

Shaw smiles when Charles’ eyes jump to his hand. “I’ll make a deal with you, Lieutenant. I ask you questions, you give me answers, as simple as that. And if you do exceptionally well, you may be allowed to have this pill. Fair enough?”

Not fair in any fucking way, but Charles nods anyway.

“Good,” Shaw says, closing his hand again. “First: how _does_ our dear Erik feel about you?”

Charles grits his teeth so hard he’s surprised they don’t crack. There’s no good answer to give here, so he settles for, “Friends.”

Shaw’s eyebrow goes up, skeptical. “Oh I think you’re much more than that to him. Don’t undersell yourself, pet.” Reclining lazily again, he lays the pill on the nightstand and returns to his snacking. “He loves you, doesn’t he.”

It’s not a question and Charles could never convince him otherwise. So he lies there in mutinous silence, furious with Shaw for mercilessly prying at their weaknesses, furious with himself and with Erik for not being more careful. He’d _known_ kissing Erik was a bad idea. He’d told himself that indulging in sentiment like that could only end terribly, and yet he’d still allowed himself to get swept up in the moment. So goddamned stupid. Both he and Erik had known better. Even if Shaw hadn’t caught them, they’d already let this thing between them get too far. It’s only going to hurt them both in the end. It already _has_.  

“You love him, too,” Shaw continues, amused. “Say it for me.”

Everything in him violently rejects the idea. The first time he says those words aloud isn’t going to be to Shaw’s face. He never, _ever_ wants Shaw to be privy to something so private and intimate as his feelings for Erik.

Shaw touches the pill on the nightstand with the tip of his forefinger and presses down lightly. The unarticulated threat couldn’t be clearer: a little more pressure and Charles’ hopes of a pain-free night will be obliterated.

“I love him,” he chokes out, helpless against the prospect of enduring the agony of his broken arm without any drugs. _Pathetic_ , he snarls at himself a moment after, but it’s too late for regret: Shaw’s smile grows wide and pleased, and he takes his finger off the pill.

“I thought so,” he says. “I must say, I’m surprised, Lieutenant. Criminals don’t seem like your type. If I knew they were, I would have tried to romance you earlier.”

Fighting the burn of his throat, Charles croaks out spitefully, “Erik is nothing like you.”

Shaw laughs. “Believe me, my pet, I know it. He likes to pretend he’s strong but he’s weaker than he knows. He couldn’t hold onto you.” His gaze traces lewdly over Charles’ body. “But I will never let you go.”

Ice steals down Charles’ spine. Tomorrow, he reminds himself desperately, before the panic can begin to rise. Shaw is _wrong_ —they’re going to be gone tomorrow and there’s _nothing_ he can do to stop them.

“Tell me about home, Charles,” Shaw commands after a moment. “Tell me about your family. Who is waiting for you to come home? A special someone, perhaps?”

Only the thought that this is almost over makes Charles speak. If he satisfies Shaw for one more night, if he stays safe for just over twelve hours, then he’ll be free.   

“My sister,” he begins, forcing the words out through his raw scratch of his throat. “And my friends…”

“A sister,” Shaw latches onto at once and Charles immediately regrets not lying. “Tell me, is she a telepath like you? Or is she a...baseline.” He must read the hesitation clear on Charles’ face because he adds with a laugh, “Don’t lie to me now, Charles.”

“Shapeshifter,” Charles grits out through his teeth.

“Delightful,” Shaw says, eyes glinting. “Another powerful mutant. If I have my way, that’s all the galaxy will hold once I’m through. Essex is willing to aid my cause because he despises the IF, you see. Once we finish with our refueling business at the Gulesson, it will be simple to continue on to his stronghold where we can truly begin organizing a galaxy-wide purge.”

Charles stares blankly at Shaw, cold horror creeping over him like a fog. It sounds utterly mad, but Shaw sounds so _confident_. If Essex commands large enough numbers of pirates and IF fugitives, and if they use any information they no doubt squeezed from the Serenity’s officers—and god, Huxley, who they must still be keeping alive somewhere on this godforsaken ship—wisely and to their advantage…

Unwarned and unsuspecting, IF military forces could very well be overrun, one sector at a time, and then it would be too late.

“We’ll have to start with the military, of course,” Shaw continues, popping another raisin into his mouth casually enough to turn Charles’ stomach at how calmly he can discuss genocide. “Though it _is_ rather unfortunate how many mutants have decided to become IF military dogs. Hopefully we can rehabilitate our brothers and sisters, hm?” He nudges Charles’ leg with his foot again. “If not we can always use them for breeding purposes, of course. We don’t want our mutant genes to run out after we’ve sorted out the civilians too.”

“And what, you’re going to be ruler of the galaxy then?” Charles snaps, angry enough to ignore the way his throat burns with each word. “You think you can just rise up and murder mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, _children_ , and everyone will accept that? Accept _you_ as supreme—”

“Charles,” Shaw drawls, drawing his name out idly while his finger moves back over to rest on top of the pill again. Charles’ mouth snaps shut at the silent threat but he glares at Shaw, hatred simmering like water in a pot. “Anyone can be made to obey with the right incentive,” Shaw tells him with a smile, using his finger to twirl the small pill on the tabletop. “If someone fears the consequences enough they’ll do anything you say, won’t they, Charles?”

Charles grits his teeth. There’s no possible way Shaw could ever be successful. Even if Essex did somehow amass enough forces to dominate the military, the galaxy is too big for one man to control alone, for one man to cull an entire _race_ and leave absolutely no survivors. The fact that Shaw’s even planning to try is evidence enough that he’s utterly insane, hiding it well beneath a sickeningly charismatic facade like the leader of some kind of cult.

“You’re going to end up right back in prison,” Charles can’t help spitting, even though he knows he’s damning himself with every word, “they’re going to hunt you down and stop you before your plans can ever gain traction.”

“They already have plenty of traction, my dear lieutenant,” Shaw says with another wide smile, amused as one might be by a hissing kitten, “and yes, they’ve done so well in hunting me down, haven’t they?” He laughs but the sound is cold and mirthless this time, expression hard enough to cause Charles to press himself back against the footboard and brace for the worst. “I was only ever in prison by fluke. Someone close to me betrayed me unexpectedly. It won’t be happening again.”

It’s evident by his tone that Shaw expects to have retribution too. Charles stays frozen stiffly as he is, almost sweating with nerves as his eyes follow Shaw’s finger still toying absently with the pill. He has no desire to know what memories Shaw is revisiting. It doesn’t matter in the end, since they’re escaping. Charles will be able to warn Command about a potential attack from the OZs and they’ll crush Shaw and Essex before they can even begin their mad crusade. Shaw will either be reapprehended or killed in the battle.

“Tell me about your Academy courses,” Shaw says abruptly, withdrawing his finger from the pill again for now and folding his hands neatly in his lap, focusing his gaze on Charles once more, and Charles has no choice but to settle himself in for a long night.

 

*

 

In the morning Shaw makes Charles crawl up the bed and straddle him again, grinding down against Shaw’s crotch while Shaw’s hands burn brands into Charles’ hips and he leers at Charles from where he leans back against the pillows. Charles has to grit his teeth for the entire duration to keep from gasping out in pain every time his ribs throb with the motions. Shaw had finally given him the painkiller late last night, when Charles had been all but delirious from exhaustion and pain, but by now it’s worn off and he’s desperate for another dose.

But today is the day. This is the last time he’ll have to see Shaw ever again. In only a few hours, Charles will be free.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that gets Charles through having to pretend to ride Shaw all the way to his completion, closing his eyes when Shaw brings his cock out to jack himself off and splatter come all across Charles’ front. He’s going to burn these clothes in an incinerator when this is done.

“There,” Shaw says with amusement, reaching forward to run a hand through Charles’ hair, “I didn’t want you to feel lonely or neglected since I’ve been using Kevin so much.” The ensign is huddled in Charles’ usual position at the end of the bed, shivering. “Your body, Charles...it’s so appealing to me. I might not be able to wait for Erik after all.”

Charles doesn’t have to fake a shudder, skin prickling where he hovers awkwardly over Shaw’s thighs.

“We’ll see how tonight goes,” Shaw says pleasantly with a smile, and then pushes Charles backwards onto the mattress so he can get up and head into the bathroom.

Come still cooling across his chest, Charles lies on his back with his head somewhere near Kevin, closing his eyes while Shaw starts up the shower. Thank god they’re getting away today. He’s surprised that Shaw held off this long to begin with, and hasn’t even made Charles strip yet, so it shouldn’t come as a shock that Shaw is getting bored with only rubbing himself off against Charles, even with Kevin as his main fucktoy.

But Charles doesn’t have to worry about that. Not anymore. By the end of the day Charles will already be thousands of light years away from the Serenity, or he’ll be dead—because if this escape fails, he thinks with sudden calm clarity, then he isn’t going to let Shaw take him alive.

After allowing Charles another painkiller pill for being so obliging in bed—though he still has to lick it up again from Shaw’s palm—Shaw drops Charles off on the bridge for his morning shift without further incident, parting with one of his usual threats before the elevator doors hiss mercifully closed. Charles goes immediately to the pilot’s chair, ignoring his single inmate guard—Weirman again today, it seems—and logging himself into the system in order to pull up the navigational sensors.

They’re nearly at the edge of the debris field, and the Serenity will pass the first of the huge, jagged rocks in five hours. Charles sits back in his chair, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. This is it.

He considers shooting a message down to Hank and give a final green light on the plan but after a few minutes of deliberating, Charles nixes the idea. They spoke yesterday, and Hank already knows what to do. Sending another unnecessary message down to the medbay now only increases the risk of their chances of being caught, something Charles is extremely paranoid about now that the time has come.

Unable to sit still on the account of nervous energy, Charles pushes himself up to his feet and goes over to the navigation table, turning on the main hologram depicting the quadrants of space surrounding the Serenity. The debris field is easy to see, a huge three-dimensional cluster of rock and dust strewn out across an area of space nearly as big as a planet. The Serenity’s current course takes her right through the middle of the field.

It’s possible, of course, for Charles to redirect the ship and fly her around either side of the sector, but it would cost them time and, more importantly, fuel. With the Gulesson still a month away, the Serenity’s levels are beginning to drop critically low. If Shaw wants to actually reach the spaceport, they have no choice—the Serenity has to fly through the field, and Shaw will have to leave Charles on the bridge to pilot.

It’s the first small victory of the day for Charles of what are hopefully many more to come, a tiny, secret burst of elation warm in his chest. He quickly sobers, leaving the hologram on but moving back over to the pilot’s chair to get to his other bridge duties. It’s still too soon to let his hopes get up too high just yet.

The morning passes slowly. Charles runs diagnostics scans on every system he can think of, even ones on the trash compactor in the bowels of the ship. The Serenity edges closer and closer to the debris field, inching along across the screen on the plot map every time Charles compulsively pulls it up to check. He tries to sit still, forcing himself to remain in the pilot’s chair under the half-baked excuse of conserving energy, but soon enough his leg is jiggling, bouncing up and down fast enough to make his whole body rock, so Charles gives up on that and launches himself up to his feet to pace.

Weirman glances up at him warily at Charles’ sudden explosion into motion, but after watching Charles make two back-forth circuits in front of the console he soon looks back down at the comm link in his hands.

Charles is almost glad to see Shaw when he finally arrives back up on the bridge to collect Charles, if only because it means some amount of time has passed. “Come along, Charles,” Shaw says, holding out a hand expectantly for Charles’ leash, and Charles takes a breath and steels himself.

“Actually, we’ve got a problem.”

“A problem,” Shaw repeats, stepping all the way out of the elevator and walking towards him slowly. His face is eerily neutral but it’s very clear that what Charles has said displeases him. “Explain.”

Charles leads the way over to the navigation table, motioning at the star chart with his good arm. “See all this? It’s a debris field. Our sensors only just picked up on it this morning. Our current course takes us right through it, which we’ll have to follow if we want to preserve fuel and save time.”

“And how is this a problem?” Shaw asks, eyes trained on the tiny green dot depicting the Serenity as she sails closer and closer to the dust and rock cloud.

“I’m the only true pilot left on the ship,” Charles says carefully, “so I’m the only one capable of flying us safely through the field. I’ll have to stay up here on the bridge until we’re clear on the other side.”

Shaw doesn’t answer at first, the silence hanging heavy. Weirman is paying close attention now, and Charles tries not to hold his breath. “I see,” he says at last.

“There isn’t another course that I could plot that wouldn’t eat up more of our fuel,” Charles says quickly, “and we’re already getting low so it’s our best—”

“Enough,” Shaw snaps, “you don’t have to convince me, I’m not a dimwitted fool, Charles.” He glances at Charles speculatively, eyes glittering in the glow of the hologram. “You’ll stay up here and see us through the field, since we don’t appear to have another choice.”

“I’ll do my best,” Charles answers, trying not to allow a single iota of relief show on his face or in his voice. “The rocks all seem to be large, so we should be able to pass through safely with only a little maneuvering.”

“I know you will,” Shaw says, leaning over to wrap an arm around Charles’ shoulders, “because if anything happens to this ship, Charles, anything at all, I will ensure that you _and_ Erik die screaming.”

“Yes,” Charles says with a shudder, but inwardly he sags in relief. Let Shaw suspect that he might be looking to crash the ship in a suicide attempt. It’ll only keep him from ever guessing the truth until it’s too late.

“Good,” Shaw says, giving him a rough squeeze that jostles his arm, though fortunately the painkiller is still in effect, “then I’ll be up again in a few hours to check on our progress.”

“Alright,” Charles agrees faintly as Shaw lets him go, and remains where he is in front of the navigation table until he hears the elevator doors hiss closed again.

Weirman is already preoccupied with his comm link when Charles turns his head to look over at him. Now he has a little over two hours to figure out how to get rid of him.

Ultimately, time passes a lot more quickly than Charles thought it would. The Serenity reaches the edge of the field forty-five minutes later, and Charles makes a show of firing up and running more scans on the tiny thruster engines that are separate from their main engine and used in tight-quarter maneuvering like in this case. The first few boulders that the Serenity passes don’t even require Charles to change their course, though they do loom massive and hulking in the viewscreen while the Serenity slides past them.

He spends the rest of the time booting up the autopilot system from where he’d disabled it so many weeks ago, quickly routing out a course for it to guide the Serenity on once he’s off the bridge. It will do no good if their escape attempt is foiled by the Serenity crashing into a boulder while Charles isn’t up on the bridge to prevent it. One glance at the screen is all it’ll take Shaw to realize that the autopilot has been activated, but hopefully by that point it won’t matter what Shaw does and doesn’t know.

At 1300 exactly, Charles knows it’s time for him to move. He’ll need the half hour in order to sneak back down to Shaw’s quarters and grab Kevin before continuing on to the medbay, and it won’t matter if he’s early. He just can’t be late.

He glances over at Weirman again. Charles’ nerves are alight, buzzing with the impending action he knows is about to take place and a million thoughts, it seems, are swirling through his head that all detail the number of ways the plan can go wrong, but he’s calm as he pushes himself to his feet and walks over towards the inmate, adopting what he hopes is an open, hopeful expression on his face.

“Um,” he says, and waits till Weirman looks up at him before continuing, “you heard what Shaw said earlier. I’m stuck up here until we’re clear of the debris field. But I’m getting kind of hungry, and I don’t want to pass out while I’m supposed to be piloting the ship. Do you mind getting me something to eat?”

Weirman stares at him for a few long moments. Charles doesn’t blame him for being surprised; it’s the first time he’s ever voluntarily addressed any of the inmates and started a conversation. Even without his telepathy Charles can see the cogs turning in the man’s head, gears grinding as he thinks Charles’ request over.

Come on, Charles thinks, keeping his guileless expression plastered across his face, you have to go. You can’t let me pass out or Shaw will skin you alive if the ship crashes.

“What’s in it for me?” Weirman asks at last, folding his arms.

Damn it. Charles swallows a nasty retort that’s fueled mostly by panic and forces himself to stay calm. There’s no way he can hope to overtake Weirman physically—the man looks like a brute—but the way he’s sizing Charles up suddenly gives him a new idea.

“I’ll…” Charles pretends to hesitate, and then leans in a little conspiratorially. “I’ll suck your cock for dessert,” he murmurs, licking his lips, “as long as you don’t tell Shaw.”

Weirman’s eyes light with interest. “How about right now?” He drops his arms and takes a step forward, hands already going to the drawstrings of his pants.

“No,” Charles says, shaking his head but keeping his tone coy, “I’m not doing it until I’ve eaten. If I do you first how am I to know that you won’t go get me food afterwards?”

Weirman stops, and Charles licks his lips again. “Fine,” he says, abandoning his drawstrings, “fair enough. You’d better eat fast, though.”

“I’m extremely hungry,” Charles assures him with a wink, and keeps his smile until Weirman has disappeared into the elevator.

Once he’s alone, Charles gives himself a few seconds to lean back against the console and take a few breaths. The mess hall should still be busy enough for it to take Weirman a solid chunk of minutes to wait in line to get Charles food, and longer if Weirman stops to eat too, but the clock is already ticking. He checks the autopilot one last time, initiating it to run its course, and then takes one last look around the bridge before stepping onto the elevator. As the doors hiss shut for the last time, Charles isn’t particularly sad that one way or another, he’ll never see the Serenity’s bridge again.

It’s a short ride down to deck two, and Charles cautiously sticks his head out into the hallway before emerging. The coast is clear, so he hurries down to Shaw’s quarters only to hesitate with his hand hovering over the wall panel.

What if Shaw has returned to his quarters? He’s been denied his usual afternoon and evening of humiliating Charles, so it’s not a stretch of Charles’ imagination to suppose that he came back to his room in order to fuck Kevin. Charles could be about to destroy the entire escape plan before it truly even began by walking into Shaw’s room if Shaw is inside.

It would be easy to turn and flee back to the elevators and head straight for the medbay. But no, Charles decides, quickly tapping out the code to unlock the door, he can’t leave Kevin behind. If Shaw is here—

But he isn’t, the room cold and empty as the lights flicker on at Charles’ entrance. He allows himself an actual sigh of relief, the breath whooshing loudly out of his lungs, and then he strides quickly across the room over to where Kevin has hunkered down in the corner near the couch.

Charles drops down into a crouch, holding out a hand. “Kevin,” he says gently, even while his heart pounds with adrenaline, “come with me. We’re going to go someplace safe.”

The ensign doesn’t respond, his head bowed and face buried in his knees. Torn between the urgency of the need to move quickly and yet not wanting to be forceful with him, Charles hesitates again before reaching all the way forward to take Kevin’s arm, albeit gently.

“Get up,” Charles orders, and his heart gives a small twinge at how the ensign instantly obeys, lifting his head and unfolding himself to his feet. He’s taller than Charles is but he follows meekly as Charles tows him back over towards the door. “I’m sorry,” Charles tells him, but there’s no time to waste on being slow and gentle right now. They need to move.

Kevin hasn’t redressed himself during Shaw’s absence so it costs them a few more minutes to get him clothed again, and once he’s finally done Charles only pauses on their way out of the room to retype the passcode on the panel in the hallway to relock the door. They catch an empty elevator and then they’re on their way down to deck four.

Charles lets go of Kevin for the ride, leaning against the back wall to breathe for a moment. So far so good. Deck four will be more crowded with inmates, but if their luck holds they won’t see Shaw, and Charles can use Kevin’s ragged state as an excuse—he’s just taking the ensign to the medbay for the doctor to patch up for Shaw’s use. Hopefully the excuse will hold. Charles hadn’t really thought this part of the plan out very well, he’s coming to realize. He’d just been so focused on getting away from Shaw that now he’s having to wing the finer details.

And what could go wrong, he thinks to himself a little hysterically as the elevator comes to a stop on deck four, the worst that could happen is that they run smack into Shaw in the hallway.

Taking Kevin by the arm again, Charles squares his shoulders and steps out of the elevator. There are a few small clumps of inmates scattered throughout the corridor, but Charles keeps his gaze locked straight ahead and starts walking. They fortunately don’t have to pass the mess hall, so they don’t run the risk of having Weirman catching sight of them, but they do have to pass the open doors of the gym-turned-prison-yard, and that’s what worries Charles the most.

The platform of Shaw’s throne hugs the same wall the doors are on, Charles tells himself as they draw closer and closer, so technically if Shaw is there, he shouldn’t be able to see them pass. Hopefully Shaw is elsewhere, though, like the captain’s office or wherever he goes to hold meetings with Essex. Charles can feel the heavy, leering gazes of the inmates in the hallway on himself and Kevin as they pass, and he keeps himself tensed and on edge, eyeing them out of the corners of his eyes and waiting for one of them to lunge or make a pass at them, but surprisingly no one makes a move, both of them passing through unmolested.

Everyone’s too afraid, Charles realizes, no one wants to touch them because they’re scared of what Shaw will do to them in retribution. Even if they don’t know Kevin, Shaw’s paraded Charles around enough the past few days to be instantly recognizable, so none of the inmates dare to stop him as he walks Kevin past the doors of the gym. It’s a boon to not be attacked, but it presents another problem: when they see Charles slip into the medbay, how long before someone goes to find Shaw and ask him about them?

And, Charles thinks with a sinking feeling, how are they going to get _Erik_ past all these inmates?

The thought of Erik propels him forward, picking up speed and tugging Kevin along behind him. He gets to see Erik again, and they’ll all come up with something together. It’ll work out. It has to. The universe owes him a thing or two going right, for once, after so many things in the past few months have gone wrong.

Though the trip to the medbay from the bridge typically takes less than ten minutes, it feels like an eternity before the familiar, blue-lit doors finally appear before them. With his hand shaking with adrenaline, it takes Charles two tries to get the door code right. Thankfully, there’s no one in this part of the hallway to stop them and ask what they’re doing, so they’re able to duck into the medbay unnoticed.

As soon as the doors hiss shut behind them, Charles lets out a shaky breath. Alright. The infirmary is completely empty, even the short-term biobeds that are always holding one or two crewmembers—and more recently, inmates—who are feeling queasy or feverish. In a ship this large, there’s always _someone_ feeling unwell, which means there’s always someone in the medbay. But it looks as if Hank has thought ahead and cleared out the whole room, which could have raised suspicions but…well, they’re just going to have to trust Hank’s judgment.   

Kevin is docile as a lamb by his side, his eyes unfocused and vague as he follows Charles’ direction. Charles herds the ensign in front of him as they head toward the closed door of Hank’s office, and as they draw near, a very familiar, very welcome voice snaps from inside, “We’re not leaving until he gets here. Are you _sure_ he said 1330? Not later?”

“He said 1330,” Hank confirms.

“Then we should go look for him,” Erik says, clearly agitated. “He’s late. What if he got caught?”

“He’s only a couple of minutes late, let’s wait a little longer—”

The door opens at Charles’ touch, and immediately all the voices cut off. He spots Hank first, standing by his desk with his blue-furred arms crossed, a black bag sitting at his feet. Beside him stands Logan and Anna Marie, and sitting in the lone armchair crammed up against the desk is Erik. He’s thin and pale as a sheet, and the dark shadows under his eyes look as if they’ve been carved there permanently. A strong wind could probably blow him over and he looks ten years older than Charles remembers, but he’s still the best thing Charles has ever laid eyes on in his entire life.

“Charles!” Hank exclaims, uncrossing his arms. “Finally. We were getting worried.”

“I know,” Charles says distantly. “I heard.” But he barely hears what Hank’s saying, barely even registers that there are other people in the room: his eyes are pinned to Erik’s, and as he stands there struck stupid in the doorway, Erik pushes himself to his feet, shuffles the three steps to the door, and crushes Charles into a tight hug.

He can feel Erik’s weakness—his arms tremble around Charles and he sags a little as if he can’t quite hold up his full weight on his own—but at the same time, he’s not sure anything could pry him from the death grip Erik has on him. He knows he’s shaking as well, shaking with relief and joy, and for a moment, they just cling to each other, silent and fierce.

Finally, Logan says warily, “Who the hell’s this?” and Charles pulls back from Erik enough to say, “His name is Kevin. He’s an ensign on the ship. We’re taking him with us.”

“The e-pod doesn’t have enough seats,” Hank points out.

“We’ll make do,” Charles says firmly. “He can share my seat. We’re not leaving him behind.”

For a moment, no one says anything. Then Anna Marie walks over, takes Kevin’s arm, and says, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

That gives Logan and Hank some pause, and while they’re distracted, Charles looks Erik all over and asks worriedly, “Are you okay? Did Anna Marie heal you?”

Erik doesn’t seem to hear him; he just runs his hands restlessly down Charles’ shoulders and arms, his eyes roving over Charles’ form. “Did he lay a hand on you?” he asks, his voice caught in a snarl of anger and pain. “Did he touch you? I’ll kill him, I swear—”

“I’m fine,” Charles forces out. “Really, I am.”

Eyes darkening, Erik touches his throat lightly, thumb running across the tender skin of Charles’ neck. “These are his fingers around your neck. And your voice…”

“Erik, we have to go,” Charles breaks in, tugging on his hand. “We can’t be caught here, we have to go.”

Bending to retrieve the black bag at his feet, Hank nods. “He’s right. We need to head down to the e-pods as quickly as possible. Alex and the others will be waiting for us there.”

“He broke your arm,” Erik says, all the metal in the room beginning to hum as it vibrates with Erik’s power in his agitation, “he _broke_ your arm—”

“Erik,” Charles says, wrapping his good arm around the back of Erik’s neck to pull his head down so that their foreheads press together. “Not now, darling,” he whispers in scant space left between them, stroking the side of Erik’s neck gently, “I’m alright. We have to go.”

“I’m so sorry,” Erik whispers back, a long shudder shaking through his body but at least the metal around them has fallen still as he grips Charles desperately, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I know,” Charles says, closing his eyes briefly to stave off the weary tears he can feel forming behind his eyes, “I know.”

“He’s just going to slow us down more,” Logan says gruffly, “you and Erik can both barely walk right now as it is. I hate to say it, but we can’t afford one more person slowing us down.”

“I’m _fine_ , Logan,” Anna Marie huffs, “I’ve done bigger healing jobs than this before. We can’t leave this poor kid, look at him.”

“We’re not leaving him,” Charles snaps, his sudden burst of anger surprising even himself as he looks up at them over Erik’s shoulder. “It was me and him stuck with Shaw, and I’m not leaving him trapped with Shaw alone.” His voice might waver a little bit on the end but he glares at Logan and Hank fiercely. He refuses to leave Kevin behind, no matter what Logan or Hank say.

“We’re bringing him,” Erik says flatly, his tone brooking no arguments as he turns his head to stare Logan and Hank down as well. Charles allows himself a brief flash of gratification to have Erik automatically side with him so readily. “Rogue, you’re in charge of him. Let’s go.”

“You bet I am,” Anna Marie says stoutly, linking her arm through Kevin’s. The ensign doesn’t react, but Charles relaxes by a degree or two already in relief.

“Fine,” Hank says, opening the door of his office and motioning for everyone to go, “let’s just move, please. Charles probably has a limited amount of time before he’s discovered missing.”

Charles nods as they step out into the medbay. Erik has yet to let go of him and Charles doesn’t exactly want to either, shifting in Erik’s grip to sidle up next to him and tucking himself firmly beneath Erik’s arm. He looks like he could use the support anyway, shaky on his legs, and Charles’ suspicion is confirmed when Erik leans against him with a grateful sigh.

“There are a lot of people out in the hallway on the way to the elevators,” Charles reports, “I don’t know how we’re going to get past them all without anyone seeing Erik.”

“Way ahead of you, Chuck,” Logan says, cracking his knuckles and pushing past them all to take the lead, “watch and learn.”

Logan stomps out into the hallway, striding ahead of them and approaching the first clump of inmates loitering in the corridor. Without an ounce of hesitation he walks right up to the biggest man in the group and cocks back a fist to punch him in the face, hard enough to send him crashing to the ground. Before any of the others can react Logan punches a second man, knocking him back into a third and it’s like a spark in an Old Earth powder keg; the hallway erupts into a fist fight that quickly grows as more and more inmates rush over to join in, and Charles loses sight of Logan entirely beneath a wild crush of bodies and flying fists.

“Go!” Hank shouts over the noise, “There’s no telling how long before this attracts Shaw!”

Charles requires no further encouragement, latching his arm around Erik’s waist and dragging him down the hall. Erik keeps an iron-tight grip around Charles’ shoulders and snarls at anyone who bumps into them as they squeeze through the brawl wherever Charles can find a big enough space, doing his best to keep up even though he pants harshly in Charles’ ear. They make it through the thick of the fighting and all the way past the gym doors—with fortunately no sign of Shaw yet but Charles’ heart pounds with fear—and soon they’re tripping into the nearest elevator where Anna Marie already waits with Kevin still attached to her arm.

Hank stumbles in next, clutching his black bag to his chest, and finally they’re joined by Logan, who nurses a black eye that’s already beginning to heal as soon as the elevator doors hiss shut.

“Well done, darlin’,” Anna Marie says to Logan fondly and he grunts, slamming a hand on the panel to begin the elevator’s descent down to the engineering decks.

“Are you alright?” Erik asks Charles in a quiet aside, beneath the sound of everyone’s panting. A fine question, coming from the man who is leaning almost all of his full weight against Charles but he sounds so concerned that Charles’ heart twists.

“I’m okay,” Charles tells him, which is the truth: he’s only a little winded, and honestly more concerned about Erik’s state than his own. “Are you?”

“Do not let go of me,” Erik growls. Charles doesn’t even need his telepathy to know he means it less in a sense of needing Charles’ support to stand and more in a sense of needing to keep Charles close period.

Ignoring Hank watching them from across the elevator pointedly, Charles answers, “I don’t intend to.”

“Alright,” Logan says as the elevator slows to a halt, “stick close to the walls. There shouldn’t be a lot of Shaw’s people around but we don’t want to attract attention regardless. Move along but don’t _run_ , got it?”

“I don’t think I could run right now even if I had to,” Charles admits, and the elevator doors hiss open to reveal the much quieter first level of the engineering decks. No one is currently in their direct line of sight from what they can see of the twisting water pipes and tall power cores that convert the energy generated by the engines and redirect it all throughout the ship, but that doesn’t mean the deck is empty.

Hank heads out first this time, doing as Logan instructed and sticking close as he can to the wall, skirting around random bits of machinery where they stick out. Anna Marie and Kevin go next, the ensign docile as ever as she tows him along, gentle but firm. Logan follows hot on their heels, claws out but head down, and then it’s just Charles and Erik who remain.

“Ready?” Charles asks him quietly, and Erik nods, grim but determined. Charles wants to stop and examine Erik more closely, make sure he’s really alright to move, but there’s no time; they’ve put their plan in motion and there’s nothing to do now but carry through. So, hugging Erik close to his side, he steps out of the lift and starts down through the deck.

Though Charles tries to keep them moving as quickly as possible, they still fall behind. On second thought, it might have been better if Logan had taken Erik, but it’s too _late_ for second thoughts. The others have disappeared from view, so Charles is left to pick their own path through the winding maze of coolant towers and power cores. Most engineering decks of IF ships have standardized floor plans, but the Serenity’s conversion into a prison ship has apparently altered some of the dimensions of the deck, which trips Charles up a few times as they slip toward the e-pod bay. The second time he doubles back, Erik whispers, “Do you want me to lead?”

Remembering that of the two of them, only Erik’s actually been down to the e-pods, he relinquishes the lead and allows Erik to direct them forward. They’re just coming into sight of the lift that will take them the short distance down to their destination when a flicker of movement in the corner makes Charles twist, his pulse jumping in his throat.

There’s no time to duck into an alcove: a man comes around the coolant tower too quickly for them to react, and when he spots them, he blinks. “What are you doing down here?”

He’s wearing a tattered red engineering uniform—not an inmate. His grip on Erik tightening, Charles says with as much authority as he can muster, “Shaw sent us down to check some things out.”

The man’s eyes narrow in confusion. “You’re a pilot. And he—”

“He can move metal with a thought,” Charles finishes, forcing an edge of impatience into his voice, “which, as you can imagine, is pretty useful down here. Now are you going to let us finish up our inspection or are you going to make us wait until Shaw comes down here to find out what’s taking so long?”

The man hesitates, his eyes flicking between Charles and Erik. Charles slams up against the empty space in his mind where his telepathy should be in frustration. If he had his power back he could put the man to sleep and they wouldn’t be having this problem at all.

“Go back to your station,” Erik snaps, the pipes around them creaking ominously. “Don’t make me find your supervisor.”

“I’m his supervisor,” another voice says, and from the path on their left someone steps out of the shadows. Charles recognizes Atul’s hulking form even before he steps fully out into the light, grinning at them with his ink-covered teeth. “Erik, I did not know you were back with us already. There seems to have been a mistake, however.”

“A mistake,” Erik repeats tersely. His grip on Charles is so tight now that Charles is almost certain he’ll have bruises, but by this point it hardly matters—there’s not a space on his body that isn’t bruised anyway and he doesn’t want Erik to let go of him, not when he’s just remembered what Atul is talking about with a second, distinct thought of _oh no_.

“Your little pilot,” Atul says nodding at Charles, “it appears he’s been given back to you. But Shaw made a deal that after he was finished with him, he would be mine.”

“Erik,” Charles warns, glancing around them. He can make out the shapes of other people moving in the gloom, most likely all inmates, closing in on them slowly in the cramped, mazelike quarters of this end of the engineering deck.

“Yours?” Erik says, deathly calm. Above them one of the towers begins to groan, its base starting to crumple as if under a massive, invisible weight. “He’s _mine_.”

Atul doesn’t so much as bat an eye. “You should sit, Erik. You don’t look so well.”

It’s true: Erik is pale as a sheet and looks unsteady on his feet. Charles isn’t sure how long Erik would last in a fight, not with Atul’s men waiting as reinforcements in the shadows. And if they’re captured, if Shaw finds out that they’ve tried to run…

“One last time,” Erik says, sounding much stronger than he looks. “Get out of our way.”

Atul clicks his tongue, black teeth gleaming in the light. “You’re not leaving until our account is balanced. You can honor the deal I made with Shaw, or I can get the captain down here to settle the dispute.”

Charles’ whole body quivers at the idea of facing Shaw, and he knows Erik feels it by the way Erik’s hand squeezes reflexively around his good arm.

“I will never _honor_ anything to do with Shaw ever again,” Erik sneers, and then tears open one of the pipes with his power so that a huge jet of rushing water slams into Atul and sends him flying backwards.

“Run!” Charles shouts over the noise, tugging on Erik to get him to follow as the other inmates and even a couple of former crewmembers start to come at them from all angles.

Erik needs no further encouragement, taking off with Charles down one of the side pathways through the machinery that happens to be clear, even as Charles hears Atul roaring insults after them and orders to his subordinates. Charles can already tell that they’re headed in the wrong direction, going the opposite way they need to go to reach the e-pod bay, but it’s not like they have any choice with footsteps thundering along behind them in pursuit. Erik pants heavily in Charles’ ear, and Charles can feel his own fatigue starting to catch up with him too: he’s too hurt, too starved, too _weak_ right now, to his utter frustration, to keep this up for long.

They come to a crossroads in the path, and right as they step out together into the center to survey their options, something heavy crashes down on them from above. Erik is knocked completely out of Charles’ grip as they both hit the deck with a painful thud, all of the air in Charles’ lungs crushed out in a painful whoosh.

Dazed, Charles lifts his head in time to almost be smacked in the face by a lashing tail as Erik grapples with their attacker, an inmate who has a full lion’s mane around his neck and throat, with a tail and paw-like hands complete with lethal claws to match. He uses them to swipe at Erik’s chest and face, blows intended to make Erik stay down as Erik tries valiantly to throw him off. Charles scrambles back up to his feet as Erik throws out a hand, yanking blindly at the metal of the coolant tower next to them to bring down a whole panel of metal to smash it down against the inmate, who snarls and twists away. He leaps up to his feet and circles around before making a running charge towards Erik who is trying to pick himself up too, moving much slower.

Charles snatches up a spare piece of scrap metal and throws himself at the inmate, barreling into him from the side and smashing his makeshift club down against the side of the man’s head. They both crumple to the ground in a tangle of limbs, Charles batting at him wildly to ensure that he stays down. He feels two hands clamp onto him and when he twists his head around his gaze meets Erik’s. Erik drags him up to his feet and away from the unconscious inmate.

“Thanks,” Erik says in between pants for breath, and at first Charles can only muster up the energy to nod, dropping the piece of metal with a clatter.

“We’re not going to make it to the e-pod,” Charles says wearily after a moment as they lean against each other while they catch their breath. The other inmates and crewmembers chasing them have nearly caught up to them again, their footsteps drawing closer and closer.

“I’m getting you off this ship,” Erik growls, slinging his arm around Charles’ shoulders once more but Charles reaches up with the arm not looped around behind Erik’s back and pulls Erik’s chin over so that they’re staring into one another’s eyes.

“And I’m not getting off this ship without you,” Charles enunciates slowly, “are we clear?”

“Come on,” Erik says gruffly, yanking his head out of Charles’ grip and ducking down one of the pathways, and there’s nothing for Charles to do but go along with him.

Something clatters off the pipes beside them but Charles doesn’t pause long enough to see what it is; more likely than not one of the inmates chasing them has some kind of ability that involves projectiles, and Charles knows the only reason he and Erik haven’t been hit dead-on is because Shaw will want them both alive and relatively uninjured—only so he can dole out pain on his own terms. That’s motivation enough to push himself a little more, ignoring all the sharp aches and pains in his ribs and upping his speed. Erik is of the same mind, his breathing harsh and uneven but he shows no signs of slowing, even when he accidentally knocks his shoulder against the corner of a tower when they duck around it.

With a snarl that must echo across the entire deck Logan bursts out of a narrow passage to their left, hurtling past them to meet their assailants head-on with a loud, scraping clash of his claws. Erik digs his heels in and wheels both himself and Charles around, bringing them to a jarring halt and throwing up his free arm to assist Logan with a barrage of flying metal that he strips off their surroundings. He pummels the inmates to keep them off Logan’s back while Logan fights like his namesake, slashing with his claws and keeping up a wild stream of curses until Erik finally pulls down one of the coolant towers entirely to block the passage, cutting off the inmates and forcing them to backtrack and find another way around to reach them.

“Fuckers,” Logan snarls, spinning around with his arms held out wide, claws extended and muscles glinting with a fine sheen of sweat. He appears largely unharmed, though who knows what his instantaneous healing ability has already covered up. He starts towards Charles and Erik and when he catches up to them they start to walk as quickly as they can. “They’re not done, they’ll be back once they figure out a way around all this shit. We have to get to the e-pod _now_.”

“We aren’t going to make it,” Erik says grimly, glancing sideways at Charles, “not all three of us, at least. Logan, you’re going to have to take him on ahead. You can move faster than I can so if you take just him, you’ll make it.”

“I’m not leaving you behind,” Charles says, far more calmly than he actually feels. He balks when he feels Erik starting to shift his grip on him, getting ready to hand him off to Logan like some kind of race baton. “Erik, no, I’m not leaving.”

“You’re not staying here,” Erik says flatly, and in a flash of anger Charles wrenches himself free from Erik’s grip and turns on his heel, standing directly in front of him, stopping him in his tracks and grabbing him by the shoulders to give him a rough shake, glaring at him.

“Would you let me make my own fucking choice,” Charles snaps, ignoring the pain in his left arm when he digs his fingers into Erik’s shoulders to drive his point home, “I haven’t been able to make a decision regarding myself for _months_ , so don’t you _dare_ take this away from me now. I’m staying with you, Erik, and that’s final.”

“Charles…” Erik is visibly torn.

“I know you’re trying to free me from this place,” Charles says, trying not to let the emotion clogging his sore throat show in his voice, “but god, Erik, do you know what it would to do me to leave you behind.” He squeezes Erik’s shoulders. “Don’t make me do that.”

“Someone has to pilot the e-pod,” Erik says weakly.

“Alex and Darwin have been working on the e-pod nonstop for months,” Charles answers gently, “they’ll know how to fly it without me.”

“What about your sister?” Erik demands, latching onto the stronger argument. “Her kid? You’re going to give up seeing them again, for what?” There’s a jagged edge to his voice that’s so thick with emotion it quivers, and Charles feels something inside his chest break apart, shattering at last.

“If I leave you here to Shaw or to death, I will never be able to live with myself,” Charles replies, his own voice choked and shaky, “do you understand? I could go home but the guilt will eat me alive from the inside out. It won’t matter if I make it home because I’ll have already been destroyed.”

“You don’t know that,” Erik whispers, eyes wide and terrified, but Charles shakes his head.

“I do,” he answers. If the price of his own escape comes at Erik’s sacrifice, he doesn’t want it. He wouldn’t _survive_ it. He tries to recall the picture he’d built of Raven and Irene and can’t.

“You two fucking idiots,” Logan growls, but there’s no heat to his voice. “Do or die, tell me now, those assholes are getting close again.”

“Go, Logan,” Charles says, keeping his grip on Erik but turning his head to look at Logan, “get back to the e-pod and launch as soon as you get there.”

“Your doctor friend is going to murder me, Chuck,” Logan mutters, but nods. “Fine.”

“Tell Hank it was my choice,” Charles says, and he thinks he should maybe be crying, or something, given all of the heavy sorrow and bitter fear currently at war in the pit of his stomach, but his eyes are clear and dry. His voice is already steady again. “I’m free. I got to choose for _myself_.”

“This is bullshit.” Logan slams a fist against a tank hard enough to leave a dent in it but then claps Erik on the back, looking fastidiously down one of the pathways. “Erik.”

“Logan,” Erik says wearily, “get out of here.”

Logan grunts and lopes off, moving swiftly and silently back the way he came, disappearing entirely from view within seconds and leaving Charles and Erik alone.

 _What have I done_ , Charles thinks, staring up into Erik’s eyes, _what have I done_.

 


	12. Chapter 12

“Don’t let them take me alive,” Charles says when he finds his voice again, speaking into the lull of silence after Logan has gone. He means for it to come out lightly but instead it sounds too much like an actual request.

“They won’t,” Erik says grimly. Despite the fact that Charles can hear the inmates’ shouts getting closer again as they weave their way through the rat maze of machinery, Erik touches a hand to Charles’ neck and he feels the inhibitor collar pop open at Erik’s command, drifting out away from Charles’ throat to hover in midair for a split second before dissolving away entirely, torn apart molecule by molecule and scattered in the air like dust, leaving nothing but a small splatter of liquid on the floor from the inhibitor serum. “There. _Now_ you’re free.”

“I thought you promised me we’d throw it out of an airlock together,” Charles says quietly. The drug may still be in effect and continuing to block him from his telepathy, but he already feels a thousand times lighter without the collar around his neck. It’s gone. Erik’s proven his word and kept his promise about removing and destroying it—there can be no more doubt that he ever meant to take any other course of action.

“I couldn’t wait that long,” Erik lies, but Charles doesn’t call him on it. The truth is they may be throwing _themselves_ out of an airlock together shortly.

“Thank you,” Charles says, because this way at least he won’t die with the collar on, subhuman and trapped. He’ll die free, equal to Erik.

Erik shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. Not for any of this.”

The inmates sound like they’re only two or so rows of equipment away now, and any moment they’ll find a way to cut back over to where Charles and Erik stand. “Come on,” Charles says, drawing Erik towards the path that goes in the exact opposite direction Logan had gone, “we can at least lead them away from the e-pods so the others can get a clean launch.”

“If we can just make it to the starboard wall, there’s an airlock towards the back,” Erik says quietly, on the same wavelength of thought as Charles.

Charles makes a small sound of agreement, slipping underneath Erik’s arm again to take some of his weight and walk with him as they make their way as quickly as they can down the passageway. Erik drags metal down in their wake, obscuring the path they’ve taken but also creating enough noise to ensure that the inmates keep up the chase after them instead of Logan.

Charles concentrates only on getting one foot down in front of the other, not allowing himself to think about how he’s just condemned himself to die here, giving up his one and only opportunity to escape once and for all. He will never see Raven again. He will never meet his nephew or niece. He will never see Irene, Moira, anyone from Corellia ever again. This is the end.

And yet he isn’t upset. He can’t imagine leaving Erik behind in order to save himself, not after how Erik has protected him for as long as he could. Charles got to choose this—he made his own choice with no one threatening or coercing him, no one ordering him what to do. This is his and his alone, and he’s got Erik back. That’s worth something, Charles thinks as they almost stumble and fall as they round a corner, trying to make it back over to the wall before the inmates catch up to them. This time _he_ got to pick Erik.

“Only a matter of time before Shaw gets called down here, even with the fight happening on deck four,” Erik says, voice strained with the effort of keeping up, “and once he gets Azazel down here we’re done.”

“Then we’ll finish it before they have a chance to start,” Charles answers. His ribs don’t like the way his torso is forced to lean to the side in order to compensate for Erik’s weight, but he isn’t letting go now. “On _our_ terms, not Shaw’s.”

Erik gives him a shadow of a grin, sharp and mirthless. “That’ll piss him off.” He sounds pleased by the thought.

“Good,” Charles says, and adjusts his slipping grip. They’re almost to the wall, just a few more yards to go.

“The e-pod launched,” Erik says a moment later, his voice distant as he no doubt stretches his powers out after the metal of the pod to feel its escape for as long as he can, “they’re safe.”

“Thank god,” Charles says wearily, his heart twisting around itself in his chest with bittersweet sorrow and rising panic. His last possible hope of escape is gone. But he thinks of Kevin, and how there’s hope again for him at last, and the storm inside him quiets, settling into acceptance. The ensign is safely away. There’s a chance for him to be okay.

Once they make it to wall it’s easy to follow it back to the airlock. Erik pulls down three coolant towers at once to stall the inmates further, their shouts and snarled curses echoing behind Charles and Erik as they stumble down towards the airlock only to discover it’s guarded by two pirates, which makes Charles and Erik draw up short when they see them. The pirates are on alert, thanks to all the noise, gripping their heavy blasters with both hands in front of them, but it just makes no sense—why have two guards posted in a back corner of an engineering deck on a doorway that leads out into empty space? Even if Shaw is determined to allow no one else access to airlocks after the incident with Ramirez, this is a bit much.

And then Charles looks past the guards out the porthole window on the door and sees the ship.

It’s not the same ship he saw the pirates initially arrive in—that ship departed weeks ago with its live cargo. This ship is far smaller than the ragtag monstrosity that had glided out from behind the dark side of a wayward planet’s moon; it’s just as jumbled in parts and construction, but it has an overall aggressive, sleeker shape, and Charles counts at least three mounted plasma cannons that he can see in his limited view of the ship. This is no slave transporter—a ship like this has only the purpose of attack and destroy.

Which means the ship is fast, and _perfect_. Hope rekindles in Charles’ chest, warm and revitalizing like a bursting solar flare across the surface of a star, granting him a new wind of strength and energy. They still have a chance to make it off the Serenity alive.

“They’re using the airlock as the dock for the transship gangway,” Charles says to Erik quickly as the two pirates catch sight of them and begin to advance towards them slowly, cautious and wary. “Shaw must have had them use this one down here in order to keep anyone else from getting any ideas about trying to get onto their ship.” And to keep the much smaller, by comparison, pirate ship tucked away and hidden by the Serenity’s massive bulk, as a secret weapon of sorts in case they ran into any hostiles before reaching the Gulesson but that hardly matters to Charles now. “If we can get through that door, we can get onto the pirate ship and get out of here.”

“What about these two?” Erik asks, eyes locked on the approaching pirates.

“It’d be nice to have their weapons,” Charles says, and Erik bares his teeth in another sharp grin as he lifts his free arm again.

“What’s going on,” one of the pirates calls, “what’s all the noise over there?”

Erik rips off an entire panel of the wall, exposing wires and circuitry with a loud screech. The pirates start in alarm, cocking their blasters but before they can pick a target to shoot at Erik swings the massive sheet of metal at them, knocking them entirely off their feet. Before they can recover Erik clenches his fist and the sheet rips in half, turning almost fluid and dropping down on top of the pirates like blankets, if blankets could ever be soldered to the floor, small tendrils of metal yanking the blasters out of their grip and sending the plasma guns clattering across the ground.

“Don’t kill them,” Charles says quickly, tugging on Erik to break his concentration and head for the blasters, “just leave them, come on.”

“Killing them would be a mercy compared to what Shaw and Essex will do to them for letting us escape,” Erik points out, but he lowers his arm just short of crushing the struggling pirates.

“Let them be the monsters, not you,” Charles answers, scooping up one of the blasters while Erik lets go of him to get the other one. The weapon is warm in his hands, and Charles cocks it with the the satisfying hum of the next blast charging, ready to fire. He’s never been a blaster junkie or an expert marksman but it feels undeniably _good_ to be holding a weapon again; it’s the first time since losing his telepathy that Charles will be able to properly defend himself.

“There might still be pirates onboard,” Erik says, crossing over to the airlock door. He holds his blaster with one hand down at his side but Charles has no doubt that he knows how to use it. “You ready?”

“All we need to do is get to the bridge and seal ourselves in,” Charles says, skirting around the cursing pirates and rejoining Erik. “Then I can do the rest.”

“Confident you’ll be able to fly this thing?” Erik asks, tapping the wall panel to open the door, pressurized locks giving way with a mechanical hiss.

Charles cracks a brief grin as they set off down the short tunnel of the transship gangway that connects the two ships, holding them abreast of each other. It bounces with their steps, and Charles tries not to think about how only a few inches of flimsy silicone stands between them and the vacuum of space.

He pushes the small panel on the outside hull of the pirate’s ship with the butt of his blaster to open the door when they reach it, he and Erik swinging their guns up in unison as the door slides open. They’re met by an empty hallway, dull and plain and not at all like the brightly lit corridors of the Serenity but Charles has never seen a more welcome sight, barring perhaps when he’d first seen Erik again back in Hank’s tiny office.

“Bridge forward,” he says to Erik, keeping his voice at a whisper just in case. Erik nods and stands guard while Charles turns back to tap out the disengaging command on the wall panel for the gangway, disconnecting the pirate ship from the Serenity.

They’ve done it. They’re officially off the Serenity.

There’s no time to fully take it in right now, and Charles motions for Erik to take the lead as they advance down the hallway, blasters at the ready. They have about a minute max, Charles calculates, before anyone who happens to be posted on the bridge of the ship notices they’re drifting free. The floor is comprised of little more than metal grates so they try to keep their footsteps as light as possible as they creep forward, passing several closed doorways as they make their way towards the dim red lights that frame what Charles guesses to be the door to the bridge. The ship can’t have that complicated of a layout, but there’s no way to tell how many pirates are still onboard.

The hallway begins to tilt, slight and hard to perceive at first as the ship begins to slowly spin over but then quickly becomes more dramatic, the angle of incline growing steeper. Erik knocks into Charles, making him hiss when it jars his broken arm.

“Sorry,” Erik says, steadying them both, but then the ship’s engines switch on with a hum, equalizers kicking in to stabilize the ship and keep it from rolling completely upside down.

“Run,” Charles says, and together they forgo any more attempts at stealth and streak towards the door, boots thudding heavily across the metal grates. The door slides open automatically as they approach and they burst onto the tiny, cramped bridge together.

Charles has a split second to take in the narrow console crushed up against the front wall beneath the long and simple window that serves as the viewscreen, and the two worn leather chairs that serve as the dual pilot seats. Both seats are occupied, the two pirates whirling around at the intrusion and shooting up to their feet at the sight of Charles and Erik.

Neither of them hesitate, moving in concert to take the pirates out; Charles smacks the butt of his blaster into the first pirate’s face to knock him out while Erik grabs onto the metal base of the chair belonging to the second pirate, flipping the chair up and over to smash into him, flooring him just as effectively. Charles tosses his blaster down onto the remaining chair, stepping over the unconscious pirates to examine the console.

“Flyable?” Erik asks as he drags both the pirates backwards, tossing them out into the hallway before stepping back onto the bridge. He drags the door closed with his powers, and then with a loud, familiar scrape he solders the door shut, sealing them safely alone on the bridge.

“I graduated at the top of my Academy class and you’re asking me if I can fly a ship,” Charles scoffs, fingers flying across the plexiglass touchscreen as he runs through the ship’s specs in less than a minute. It’s less complicated than the Serenity’s military-grade system by far, requiring simple command prompts for actions. He waves that window away and pulls up the ship’s radar, overlaying it on the star chart for a good view of their surroundings.

“Alright, then, Lieutenant,” Erik says with a small huff of amusement, righting the chair he’d knocked over and sinking down into it in front of the other end of the console, still close enough to be right beside Charles’ leg, “show me what you’ve got.”

The thrusters are controlled by an actual lever, which Charles pulls back on slowly at first, since he has no idea how much of a kick the engine’s got. “Pull up the fuel readings for me,” he orders as the ship glides forward, fast but fortunately not squirrely enough to plaster them both against the back wall. “Better make sure we didn’t just steal a ship that’s got only an hour’s worth of fuel.”

There’s a second touchscreen in front of Erik so he sets to work, a little slower than Charles as he scrolls through the data. Charles concentrates on getting a handle on the ship’s steering, pulling up the plotter and drawing a few simple vectors for the ship to follow. There’s not a lot of grace to the ship, but he supposes that it’s an attack ship, which means speed and muscle are prioritized over maneuverability. Sure enough, when he taps on the weapons system there’s a total of five cannons already loaded with photon torpedoes of questionable payload along with the three plasma cannons he’d spotted and even a single laser shot that must be good for one or two blasts.

He opens a command prompt screen for yet another cannon that doesn’t even have a label or a name, and as he scrolls through the list he realizes that it’s a tracker system. The cannon doesn’t fire weapons, it fires what look like tiny homing devices that will stick to their target and emit a tiny signal that’s encrypted to only be recognizable by the ship’s computer—the pirates must also use this ship as a sort of scout that marks targets to track down with more forces later. Charles doesn’t hesitate, firing off one of the devices and watching on the tracking screen as it flies back to the Serenity and attaches itself to the side of her hull. Now if he can just get this ship back to IF Command…

But that’s getting too far ahead of himself for now.

“We’re good on fuel,” Erik reports as Charles swings the ship back around to take in the Serenity through the window, “tank’s about half full and all of the power cells are coming back with fully-charged statuses. We’ll last long enough to find Logan’s friend, at the very least.”

“We need to find Logan and the others,” Charles answers, switching back to the star chart again. The radar is giving cluttered readout, which is to be expected in the middle of a debris field, but the e-pod should be identifiable. “And we’re going to have to figure out what to do with any pirates on board this thing.”

Standing, Erik flexes his hand and nods toward the door. “I’ll take care of them. You just focus on getting us out of here.”

Charles shoots him a worried glance. “You need to sit down. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“I’m fine—”

“Erik, sit down.”

It’s a testament to how exhausted and weak Erik is that he obeys without another word. Still, Charles knows Erik won’t sit still for long; as soon as he gets impatient, he’ll be clamoring again to go stomping through the ship searching for leftover pirates. So to give him something to do, Charles says, “Keep an eye on the power gauge, alright? If it drops below 300 output, I need to know.”

When Erik stares at the jumbled console for a baffled moment, Charles adds, “It should be the meter at your right hand, underneath the engine status.”

“Got it,” Erik says gruffly.

“It needs to stay above 300 output.”

“Okay.”

That done, Charles turns his attention back to the radar screen. This ship’s sensors are significantly less sensitive than a military carrier’s like the Serenity’s; they can pick up the same masses in space and give him a general idea of the world beyond their walls, but the definition of the imaging is poor and there’s no telling how accurate the locator sensors are. Still, he’s flown with worse.  

“Do you have a visual on Logan and the others?” Erik asks.

“Not yet. Just give me a second…” Abnormal movement at the corner of the radar screen catches his eye, and he stabs his finger at the spot triumphantly. “Got them. Erik, can you hail them on an open channel?”

“I…” Erik swipes through screens, his brow furrowed. “What the hell is this system? It’s impossible to navigate.”

“It’s a Kalyon operating system,” Charles replies, pulling up the comm screen himself with his good hand. “Uncommon in IF ships, but the Academy trains us in most known operating systems in the Federation.”

Even so, it takes him a couple of minutes to remember how to switch to a valid hailing frequency, and every passing second makes the hairs at the back of his neck rise in mounting fear. Any moment now, Shaw will realize they’re gone. Any moment now, he could send Azazel to stop them and they’d be helpless against him. Their only realistic chance is to get moving as soon as possible, as fast as possible. Teleporting from one location to another moving at starship speeds should be impossible, no matter how powerful a mutant Azazel is, so once they achieve a comfortable velocity, they should be safe. But as long as they’re idling here trying to find their bearings, they’re utterly vulnerable.

A whine and crackle indicates a successful connection, and a moment later, a hologram of Hank’s face appears to the left of the viewscreen. He gapes at them. “ _Charles_?”

“Charles!” Angel shouts in relief somewhere in the background.

“Who’s flying the pod?” Charles asks without preamble.  

“Alex,” Hank answers promptly, recovering from his shock, “Darwin’s helping.”

“Can they hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Alex, I’ve got you on my radar. Can you see me?”

There’s a pause. Then Alex calls out, “Are you in that ugly-ass attack cruiser?”

Charles actually manages a smile. “Yes, that’s us. Here’s the deal: I can navigate us through this debris field, but I’m going to need you to follow on my tail exactly. In a field as tightly packed as this one is, one false move and you’ll be dead before you know it.”

“Real comforting,” Logan mutters somewhere in the background.

“Is Erik there?” Anna Marie calls, and Charles tips a look in Erik’s direction.

“I’m here,” Erik confirms, lifting his voice in order to be heard. Now that Charles has gotten him to sit and ensured that he’ll stay there, Erik looks like he won’t be getting up anytime soon at all, almost slumped in the chair with exhaustion. Erik sees him looking and reaches over to tug on the bottom of Charles’ shirt gently. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine,” Charles replies automatically, but he sinks down into his chair after Erik leans over to move the blaster out of the way for him. He has to scoot it up closer to the console but it feels good to be sitting after all the running they’ve done.

“Of course you are,” Anna Marie answers, sounding relieved, “thank god you both made it out. When Logan came back without you…Well,” she says briskly after a pause, “we don’t have to ruminate on it since y’all are here. What’s next?”

“Whoever’s the best pilot should be at the controls,” Charles says. “I’m sending you general direction vectors now. Plug them into the navigation board and they should take you close on my tail. But someone needs to stay on the controls because we’re going to have to do some manual maneuvering through the tighter spots.”

After a moment, Darwin says in the background, “Got the vectors. We’re good to go.”

“Alright,” Alex says. “Charles, get us the fuck out of here.”

Charles has never been gladder to obey. Taking the thruster controls in hand, he propels the ship forward, deeper into the densest area of the debris field. The Serenity is far too large to follow directly, but the e-pod should have no trouble. Charles makes sure he can see the others on the radar just behind him before speeding up, skimming along the side of a massive asteroid almost close enough to clip the side of the ship. The more they stick to the shadows and out of open space, the more difficult it will be to pick them up on sensors. He only hopes Alex is skilled enough to follow.

“What can I do?” Erik asks after a long minute.

“You can watch the power gauge.” When Erik makes a frustrated noise, Charles swipes the comm screen over to him and adds, “You can also talk to Logan and figure out where his friend is supposed to be.”

Erik seems grudgingly satisfied with that task. Charles tunes out his voice and Logan’s, narrowing his focus down on the navigation screen. It’s been a while since he’s done maneuverability practice and this cruiser is bulkier than he likes, so he can’t afford to be distracted. He sends them zipping past a craterous rock and eases the speed up another few notches. The sooner they escape this field, the better, and the thought that they’re putting miles and miles between themselves and Shaw with every passing second is exhilarating. He wants nothing more than to slam the cruiser on full speed and watch the distance between them grow, but that would be unbelievably reckless in cramped flying space like this. He’s not going to die by crashing this ship into a rock only minutes after they’ve escaped from Shaw’s clutches.

“Logan says his friend will find us,” Erik says after a long few minutes.

Charles shoots him an incredulous look. “Can’t he give us coordinates? We can’t go flying blind until we happen to run into each other!”

“Logan says to trust him.”

It sounds like the flimsiest of plans to flee straight into a debris field on the mere _hope_ there will be help waiting for them on the other side, but what choice do they have now? There’s nowhere to go but forward.

“Hold on then,” Charles mutters, taking their speed up another notch. “It’s going to be a rough flight.”

A small beep draws their attention away from the viewscreen. “It’s the Serenity,” Erik says, frowning as he looks down at the alert. “Shaw’s hailing us.”

Charles’ chest constricts for a moment. A glance at the star chart confirms that the Serenity has altered her course and is on their tail, which means Shaw knows they’ve escaped and this must be a ploy to slow them down. Even the thought of getting caught now makes him nearly want to ram this ship head-on into the next asteroid they pass. They can’t go back. It would be better to die here and now than to face Shaw for even another second. He can’t even stomach the thought of seeing Shaw’s face, of hearing his voice.

His hand clenched tightly around the accelerator, he says, “Don’t answer it.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“He’s just trying to distract us. And an open channel would make it easier for him to track us.”

Erik rejects the comm with a violent flick of his fingers. “How far are we from open space?”

Charles checks the sensor readings and runs through a rapid mental calculation. “Another ten, ten and a half minutes. With any luck, that’ll give us at least five minutes on Shaw. A ship the Serenity’s size can’t keep up with us in terms of speed.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when an alarm blares from the center console, just a second before the ship shudders.

“Fuck,” Erik says as he stares at their location on the star chart. “Are they…?”

“Firing at us,” Charles finishes grimly. “Or at the debris to clear a path.” Either way, that was far too close for comfort; with a ship this small, a direct hit from military-grade canons could pulverize them. Does this mean Shaw isn’t interested in taking them alive anymore? Surely he wouldn’t risk firing plasma cannons into the thick of space debris if he cared about bringing them back in one piece.

Erik seems to have reached the same conclusion. “I guess he’s done playing his games with us.”

Charles urges the ship on a little faster, curving recklessly between two jagged chunks of rock. “That might be the best thing I’ve heard in my entire life.”

On-screen, Hank’s face reappears, drawn and anxious. “Are you guys okay?”

“Fine,” Erik says. “You?”

“A little shaken but okay. Logan says once we reach the edge of the field we should be safe.”

“Then we’ll be _exposed_ ,” Charles corrects. “I hope his friend is packing some extreme firepower because we’re not going to last long with the Serenity on our tails.” They can’t outrun Shaw in open space and they certainly can’t fight him. If Logan’s friend isn’t there…

He shakes the thought away and refocuses on the viewscreen. One problem at a time. Maybe Shaw’s only chasing them to put on a show for Essex and the rest of the inmates. He can’t seriously chase them down for too long unless he wants to burn through too much of the Serenity’s already low fuel, and then she won’t have enough to make it to the Gulesson.

“Shit,” Charles hisses through his teeth as a plasma beam lances across the top of ship, alarms sounding and all of the readouts on his screen flashing red in warning as the whole ship trembles. That’s not even their main problem: the beam slices through a huge chunk of rock directly ahead of them, blowing it into smithereens and sending thousands of smaller, jagged pieces of rock exploding outwards in all directions like shrapnel. “Hold on!”

He rolls the ship sharply to the side to avoid the largest of the rocks, some of the smaller ones pattering like heavy rain against the hull as they blast forward. Luckily none of larger chunks hit the front window, because Charles has no idea how strong the glass even is. One crack could be enough to shatter the whole panel and he and Erik will be sucked out into the vacuum of space.

It’s hard to see anything at all now on either the radar or out the window since dust from the explosion now clouds everything, which just might work in their favor. It’ll be harder for the Serenity to pick up on them too if they use the dust like a shield, but she’s still a lot larger and has actual shields that will keep her from being pulverized by smaller rocks like these.

“Still with us?” Charles asks loudly even as he pulls another sharp turn, gritting his teeth as the g-force presses down on his left arm particularly painfully.

“This is fucking stupid!” Alex shouts back angrily, which Charles takes as a yes. They jerk through a narrow passage between two towering sheets of rock and tear past a million scattered dust particles, small chunks of debris clattering against the metal of the ship. Charles wants to glance at the sensor readings to check how far behind them the e-pod is, but he doesn’t dare take his eyes off the viewscreen; even a second of inattention in a precarious situation like this could doom them.

Abruptly, Erik twists sharply around in his chair to look at the door. “There’s someone coming.”

There must still be pirates onboard after all. Shit.

“Erik, the phaser—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Erik says, pushing himself to his feet.

Charles doesn’t have to look to see that Erik only remains upright out of sheer stubborn will, not through any strength of his own. “You’re in no condition to fight, Erik!”

“Are you going to fend them off?” Erik snaps. “Just concentrate on flying. I’ll be right back.”

Fear seizes through him. “Erik, you can’t—”

But what choice do they have? He’s right: Charles can’t budge from the piloting console, not until they’re in safer flying space.

Gritting his teeth, he says, “Be _careful_ , okay?”

Erik squeezes his good arm once. “I’ll be right back.”

Behind him, the doors screech open with Erik’s power and then weld shut again. Charles tries to corral the panic in his chest and forces himself to watch the viewscreen. Erik will be right back.

Another blast rocks the ship, though this one feels more distant than the ones before. A rapid glance at the sensor readings shows that the Serenity has dropped back, struggling through the debris. Another minute or two and they’ll be entirely out of range. The terrified knot in Charles’ stomach begins to loosen—they’re so very _close_.

The edges of the field creep closer on the star chart. The rocks are starting to thin out, making it easier to pass between them. “We’re nearly there,” Charles says to the comm screen. “Logan, any word on your friend?”

“He’ll be there. He may be batshit crazy but he keeps his word. Usually.”

“Did you just say _usually?”_ Charles demands, fury edging into his voice. They’ve come so far and if this whole plan fails because Logan’s friend doesn’t deliver—

“He’ll _be_ there, Chuck! Just get us out of h—”

“Hey, little pilot!”

Charles’ heart stutters in his chest. For a second, he can’t move, can’t think. Everything in the viewscreen slows, drifting past as sluggishly as his pulse in his ears. That’s not Erik outside the doors, and if it’s not Erik then Erik is…Erik…

Someone’s fist slams against the doors from the outside. “Open up for us or we kill your friend here.”

Charles shuts his eyes with a ragged breath. Erik’s alive.

“Chuck, who is that?”

He closes the comm screen and forces himself to take another breath.

“Last chance, kid!”

Legs wobbly, he stands from the console and shouts back, “I can’t open the doors. They’re soldered shut.”

“Then tell your friend here to open them,” the grizzled voice says coolly. “We’ve seen what he can do. He won’t listen to us but maybe he’ll listen to you. Or do you want to hear us beat his head in?”

“Open it, Erik,” Charles says, without hesitation.

There’s a pause—then Erik’s voice, weak and thin and still defiant: “Charles—”

“I swear to god, Erik,” he snaps, even as he reaches for the phaser left on the chair, “if you die I will, too, and you know it. So _open_ it.”

The metal doors crunch apart slowly and unevenly. The lethargy of the motion is as clear a sign as any that Erik’s power is at its limits.  Charles fights to stay calm as he takes in the sight: two muscled pirates, the shorter one holding a club to the back of Erik’s neck, Erik who’s on his hands and knees at their feet, clearly too exhausted to even stand. Why did he ever let Erik go, Charles thinks furiously as his grip around the phaser behind his back tightens. They should have just kept the door shut, should have just _waited_.

The taller pirate glares at him. He’s holding a club, too, one that looks big enough to cave Charles’ skull in with one blow. “Step away from the controls.”

Charles raises his free hand. “I can’t. We’re not out of the debris field yet. If I don’t pilot, we might crash.”

“That’s what this one’s for,” the taller one says, nodding at his companion. “Jakka, get over there.”

Jakka kicks Erik in the back, knocking him flat on his stomach with a pained grunt, before crossing the room toward Charles. The field has evened out so that even an amateur pilot could probably pick his way through safely—the moment Jakka takes over the console, Charles and Erik will be utterly dispensable.

 _Fuck_ , Charles thinks, bracing himself. Then he slams the accelerator lever forward all the way, sending the ship lurching forward.

Even though he’d steeled himself he still tumbles backward over the arms of the pilot’s chair and collapses hard onto the deck, the breath knocked from his lungs as he lands on his broken arm. Black spots eat away at the corners of his vision, but he fights away unconsciousness. The phaser is still in his good hand, still primed to fire. Somehow he finds the strength to push himself up to one knee and finds one of the pirates stumbling to his feet against the far wall. One shot is all it takes: the pirate wheels away with a shout as the phaser fire slams into his shoulder.

Turning to look for the other pirate, Charles catches the edge of the swung club just over his left brow. Pain exploding through his head, he crumples, the phaser slipping from his slack fingers. His vision goes fuzzy and indistinct. He’s distantly aware of Erik shouting his name, but his mouth won’t work. His whole body feels as if it’s been cut away, nonresponsive and numb. _Come on_ , he snaps at himself, trying to get his fingers to move. _Get up._

“How much do you think Shaw will pay me for you?” the pirate above him crows. “I’ve seen you around before, you’re one of his favorites, ain’t you? Let’s call him up right now and see what he says, yeah?”

Panic surges up, hot and blinding. But he’s still too dazed to move. He hears the beep of the comm screen being pulled up, followed by the long tone of a channel opening.

But the voice that comes through is decidedly _not_ Shaw’s.

“Yes, hello? Hello. HELLO. Is this thing on? Can you hear me? I can barely hear myself speak over all these voices in my head!” Laughter follows, so loud that static crackles gratingly through the channel. “Anyway, I was hoping to speak to the creator of the Easy Bake Oven. Is that you?”

“The fuck?” the pirate asks blankly, dumbfounded.

“It’s important that you hear this,” the voice on the other end of the channel insists. “Your Fudgy Chocolate Chip Cookies are so incredible that I wrote a song about them and I need you to hear it.” The voice suddenly drops several octaves and booms out of the console’s speakers. “ _Or else_.”

“Who is this clown?” Jakka demands, and the ship rattles as he pulls off a maneuver that makes Charles slide across the floor a little with the turn.

“Are you ready for my song or not?” the voice demands, and then without warning it bursts into song. “ _AMAAAZING GRACE, HOW SWEET THE SOUND_ —”

“Cut the damn transmission, I’m trying to concentrate here,” Jakka snaps.

“I’m trying,” the other pirate snaps back. Evidently Charles’ phaser shot only grazed him; he’s clutching his right arm to his chest, but he’s fully conscious and functioning. Damn. “It won’t let me! This asshole’s hacked our comm line and won’t let me cut the link!”

“— _THAT SAVED A WRETCH LIKE MEEEEE_ —”

“Where’s his ship,” Jakka snarls, “just blow him out of the fucking sky!”

“I don’t see anything on the radar other than the Serenity! _Shit_ , they’re firing at us again—”

“— _I ONCE WAS LOST, BUT NOW I’M FOUND_ —”

“Get us out of the fucking debris zone!”

“— _WAS BLIND, BUT NOW I SEEEEE_!”

“I’m _working_ on it—”

The ship judders violently and something scrapes deafeningly along its exterior. Jakka lets out a shout of alarm, yanking at the controls, but something’s wrong: the ship isn’t responding to his commands, and all he can do is cling to the nearest chair and try to keep his footing as the floor tilts precariously, sending Charles sliding to the wall. He tries to get his feet under him so he’ll land somewhat safely, but before he hits the wall, the ship rights itself with a jerk, sending the two pirates stumbling.

“Now!” the voice on the comm exclaims. “I have a question for you: what can I do to get a discount? Like, is there a deal for a year’s supply? Because if there is, I’d buy it, except it probably costs at _least_ two hundred pancakes and that’s impossible. My stove can only make fifty-six at a time, so any payment has to be a factor of fifty-six, you feel me? Fifty-six, one hundred twelve, one sixty-eight, two twenty-four, two seventy…eighty…Man, I don’t know, I never learned to multiply things by five—”

“Who the fuck are you?” Jakka screams, slamming his hand down rapidly all over the console. “Who—”

“Sorry,” the voice says amiably. “It’s sleep time now.”

“What—”

All the lights go out at once. Even the viewscreen is dark, without even the pinpoint light of stars to provide any illumination. The pirates curse and start to stumble around in the dark, their boots thudding heavily against the deck. Charles debates trying to crawl for the doors, but he’s too disoriented to know which direction to go. Blood is running hot down his face, and he’s too woozy to move very much. He can only hope Erik’s taking better advantage of the blackout than he is.

Something lands lightly right by his ear. He jerks away, trying to lash out, but a hand catches his foot in the dark and the voice from the screen whispers, “Shhh, sweet space sunflower, stay right there and hold this.” Something pushes into his good hand. Then, with a swish of displaced air, the figure leaves his side.

Charles spins the object in his hand, trying to figure out if it’s a weapon he can use, but it’s some sort of plastic and paper, nothing sharp enough to be effective. A moment later, there’s the distinct sound of a sword being freed from its sheath and Jakka lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

Charles isn’t sure if he blacks out for a brief moment, but the next thing he knows, the lights are flickering back on and a man in a red-and-black mask is crouching by his side, the hilt of a sword jutting out over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” the man says, plucking the object from Charles’ hand. When Charles looks closer, he realizes it’s a small package of nuts and dried fruit.

“What was I supposed to do with that?” he splutters incredulously.

The man cocks his head. “Nothing. I don’t know. You could have eaten some if you wanted to. I’m not a germophobe.” He pops to his feet and then rocks back on his heels in surprise. “Man, what did you do to your face? You look like _me_.” There’s a slight pause before he drops to his hands and knees and peers at Charles nose-to-nose. “Oh my god, are you my twin?”

“Get away from him,” Erik rasps, appearing on Charles’ other side. He looks pale and shaky, but he’s more conscious than Charles is at this point. He pulls Charles to him and presses his sleeve to Charles’ forehead. “Charles?”

“I’m okay,” Charles croaks, though the words come out a bit slurred. “Just—head hurts—”

Erik huffs. “You nearly got your skull split open. Scared me to death. Can you sit up?”

“I…think.” He takes the hand Erik proffers him, but he can’t muster up the strength to sit up. “Maybe not,” he says weakly. The full extent of his exhaustion and injury makes itself known all at once, slamming into him like a phaser shot. He couldn’t move anymore if his life depended on it.

“You,” Erik says to their rescuer. “Where’s Logan and the others?”

“Grabbed them when I grabbed you. At least, I think I did. It was kind of hectic there. Might have lost them in transit. But Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is kinda badass. I’m pretty sure he made it.”

Erik stares at him. “What?”

“I’ll go find him,” their rescuer says helpfully, and then cartwheels out the doors.

“Who the hell was that?” Charles asks, wondering if he’s hallucinating. The world is spinning slightly, and he’s not quite able to get his eyes to focus properly.

“Logan’s friend,” Erik replies as he sits down and pulls Charles’ head into his lap so that they’re both more comfortable. “He warned me about him. He just scooped our ship up into his ship, it looks like we’re inside some kind of holding bay. How are you? Where does it hurt?”

Charles grimaces. “Everywhere, honestly.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get Hank to look at you as soon as we’re safe. Logan and Anna Marie, too.”

Just the thought of the healing process makes tears prickle at the corners of Charles’ eyes. “Please knock me out for that.”

Erik chokes out a laugh as he cradles Charles’ head gently. “Of course.” Then he leans down and kisses Charles, rough and fierce and desperate. “We made it,” he whispers, his eyes wet.

Charles grips his wrist and tries not to cry. “We did.”  

A few minutes later, footsteps thunder onto the bridge, and suddenly everyone is there. What happens next is just a blur: someone’s picking him up, someone’s holding his hand, lights are flashing by overhead, he’s being laid down somewhere soft.

“You’re gonna be okay, Chuck,” Logan’s saying.

Anna Marie’s there, too. She’s the one holding his hand, and when she brushes the hair out of his eyes, her hand comes away wet with his blood. He thinks he can hear Erik’s voice, exhausted but tight with concern and Charles thinks his lips try to twitch in the semblance of a fond smile.

Then Hank injects something into his arm and his eyes slip closed, quickly and painlessly.

 

*

 

When he wakes up, he’s not hurting anymore. He’s lying in someone’s bed in a private room, not in any medical ward. When he tries to move, he’s weak with weariness but uninjured. His broken arm has been mended, and his ribs no longer twinge when he sits up. When he raises his hand to his head, he discovers that the gash from the pirate’s club is gone, too, only a rough scrape remaining.

They must be safe.

For several minutes, he just sits where he is and breathes. He can’t explain the maelstrom of emotion raging in his chest then. He’s exhausted and disbelieving and scared for the future, but above all hangs a bone-deep relief that seems to loosen the knot that’s been tightening in his chest ever since this whole ordeal began. They’re safe. It’s over. All those weeks on the Serenity, all those days of torment and terror, they’re _over_.

Then he thinks of Erik. Tiredness forgotten, he rushes to the door. It doesn’t open automatically so he has to search for the open panel for a moment, and when he does, he hits it so hard his palm stings.

When he steps out, he finds himself in a narrow, short hallway. To his left is a dead end, so he takes off like a rocket to his right, shooting up the stairs at the end of the corridor. They lead him to an upper deck where he finds a small, cluttered galley. This is empty, too, though a leftover meal sitting on the counter indicates that someone’s been here recently. A door at the other end of the galley opens onto a grated walkway, at the end of which sits another flight of stairs.

He can hear voices before he even ascends them. Logan, then Hank, then Angel. He’s clattering up the stairs before he can wonder if he should interrupt, and the door hisses open as soon as he meets it.

Inside is a small lounge area cramped with people, but Charles doesn’t get a chance to notice any of them: Erik seizes his focus from the moment the door slides open. He leaps up from the chair he’s perched on to close the distance between them in a few rapid steps. “You shouldn’t be out of bed,” he says, obviously anxious. “Hank said you needed to sleep.”

Charles takes a moment to just look him over. He’s no longer wearing the ragged clothes he’d scavenged from the Serenity’s crew, dressed now in a standard pair of black trousers and a clean shirt and brown jacket. The dark circles under his eyes are gone, as is the perpetual tension he carries in his rigid shoulders. Only a few hours of freedom later, he already looks worlds better than he ever looked on the Serenity.  

“I’m fine,” he answers. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

Erik smiles but it’s hesitant. “I’m okay. Just needed a little rest.”

Charles half-expects Erik to draw him into his arms and usher him over to the sofa behind him, but Erik just steps back, nodding toward the chairs. “Want to come in?”

“Yeah. That would be nice.”

Logan’s here, too, as is Hank, Angel, Darwin, and Alex. The latter two are sharing a small couch, pressed close enough together that it looks like they might soon be excusing themselves to head to bed. Charles glances around and notes that Hank, Angel, and Darwin have all had their inhibitor collars removed, and then asks, “Where’s everyone else?”

“Mr. Wilson is on the bridge,” Hank answers, “and Anna Marie is sitting with Kevin.”

Charles’ attention sharpens. “How is Kevin?”

Hank makes an unhappy noise. “He’s…It’s difficult to say. Physically, we’ve patched him up. Mentally…well, we’re going to have to wait and see about that. At least Anna Marie seems to calm him down better than anyone else does, so we’re letting her assess the situation.”

Charles quells the disappointment that starts to form in the back of his mind. As much as he might have hoped for an instant cure, he understands the limits of reality. It’s going to take time to heal Kevin. Hell, it’s going to take time to heal _himself_.

“Sit down,” Angel says after a pause. She pushes one of the wooden chairs toward him. “How are you feeling?”

He takes the proffered seat and watches as Erik settles back in his own chair, nearly across the room from him. “Fine, really. Where are we?”

“Flying as far away from Shaw as possible,” Alex says.

“You’ve been out for about eighteen hours,” Darwin adds. “We’ve got to be too far for Shaw to track easily now, not if he still wants to keep on track toward the Gulesson. We’re not worth wasting his fuel on.”  

“Eighteen _hours?”_ Charles echoes, shocked.  

“You’ve been through a lot,” Hank says gently. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d slept for two days. Also, I gave you a sedative to help you rest while we dealt with your injuries.”

No wonder he still feels sluggish. He could probably sleep another eighteen hours if he wanted.

“Where are we headed from here?” he asks.

Logan shrugs. “The asshole’s just focused on getting us away. No real direction yet. We were waiting for you to wake up to decide.”

“The asshole?”

“That’s what he calls his friend,” Alex mutters. “The mask guy.”

Charles toys briefly with the idea of asking Logan about his history with this asshole character, but figures that’s a story he might not want to hear. Instead, he says, “Well obviously I want to go home, and I imagine some of you want to, too.”

Hank and Angel both nod in unison. Darwin takes a little longer, darting a quick glance at Alex as he bobs his head in affirmative. They’re clearly attached to each other, emotionally so. What are they going to do? Part ways amiably? Try to stick together? Alex is still a criminal, and now an escaped criminal at that. A return to Corellia would be impossible for him—a legal return, that is.

Charles glances at Erik, who is already looking at him. What are _they_ going to do?

“It might be kinda obvious to you,” Logan says, “but some of us really _don’t_ want to get into IF space anytime soon. So we’re gonna have to compromise here somewhere.”

Erik tears his gaze away. “We’ll have to find another ship. Then we’ll split up.”

 _We_ , he says. Charles tries to decipher Erik’s intentions behind that word and can’t. But the way Erik won’t look at him makes a sick feeling begin to draw up in his stomach.

“That would probably be for the best,” Angel agrees. “There’s got to be someplace we can scavenge for a ship. Aren’t there abandoned shipyards in OZs?”

Logan nods. “A few here and there. Mostly used by pirates and outlaws, but we can probably find one that’s not too busy. And Wilson has some connections he can squeeze for favors.”

“They must be good connections if they’re just going to gift him a starship on such short notice,” Charles says, a bit dubiously.

“Don’t worry,” Erik says. “We’re going to get you home.”

 _You_. Not _us_. The uneasy feeling in Charles’ gut solidifies. So that’s the way this is going to end: with he and Erik parting ways. A friendly handshake, maybe a hug, and then they’ll say goodbye, just like that. He can see the ending coming and he’s not ready for it, not even in the smallest degree.

“I’ll go pick Wilson’s brain about possible shipyards in the area,” Logan says, sliding off his stool.

Hank rises, too. “I should check on Anna Marie and Kevin. If anyone else has any needs, I’m staying on the third door on the left in the crew quarters.”

The room empties one by one until only Charles and Erik are left, sitting on opposite sides of the room. Charles wants to go to him, to press himself into Erik’s front and hold him possibly for forever, but the way Erik’s suddenly holding him at arm’s length puzzles him. So he stays where he is and just watches Erik, waiting for Erik to make the first move.

“You should get some more rest,” Erik says eventually.

“I should.” Charles glances at the door, then back at him. “Are you coming with me?”

Erik shakes his head. “Go ahead. I have some things to take care of.”

“Will you come after?”

“The rooms here are barely big enough for even one person,” Erik points out. “I have my own room. We’ll be more comfortable that way.”  

It sounds like an excuse, but Charles lets it slide, even though the rejection hurts. “Okay. I’ll…see you later then.”

“Yeah.”

He lingers another moment, hoping Erik will say something more. But when nothing comes, he stands and leaves, hoping Erik can’t read the disappointment clenched tight around his throat.

What had he expected? For Erik to make some sort of grand declaration of love and then promise to stay with him forever? What romantic tripe. He’s known from the beginning how this would end. He’s going home and that’s all he can ask for.

Still, when he climbs into bed, he can’t help but feel bereft. It’s going to take him a long time to feel safe again without Erik’s arms around him.

 

*

 

When Charles wakes again he’s disoriented at first, lurching up into a sitting position with his throat choking in panic because he doesn’t know where he is or what’s been done to him while he was unconscious. Then he remembers that he’s in his own room, that no one has touched him, that he’s _safe_ , and he nearly collapses back down again with exhausted relief. He doesn’t have to wait in nervous fear for Shaw to return.

His body feels like he’s aged twenty years as he slowly untangles himself from the small bed’s blankets and stands, wobbling a little on his feet. He doesn’t hurt—unlike painkillers, Anna Marie’s healing job won’t wear off—but his muscles ache, and when he lifts his shirt to inspect himself he’s still got a scattered array of bruises left over. He doesn’t look nearly as bad as he used to, but Anna Marie must have been focused more on his bones than his skin.

Not that he’s complaining. He’ll take bruises over broken bones any day. Charles lets his shirt fall back down and runs a hand through his hair, which only makes him grimace; his hair is grimey, and serves to remind him how filthy he is, caked in sweat and Shaw’s come. He hasn’t had a shower in days, and suddenly his skin is crawling and he can’t stand it any longer.

One glance around the room tells him that there’s no attached bathroom, just the single door that leads out into the hallway. Charles strides over to it and presses the panel to let himself out, some of the anxiety in his chest abating when the door slides open readily. Like before the hallway is empty so Charles heads for the stairs again, hoping to find someone he can ask where the showers are on this ship so he can scrub himself raw.

By the time he reaches the last few steps he’s out of breath, winded as he bursts up into the tiny galley on the next deck. He’s in luck—Erik’s sitting at the counter with an empty plate in front of him, scrolling absently through a data pad. He looks up as soon as Charles comes to a stop in the doorway and puts the tablet down immediately, half-rising out of his chair.

“Charles?” he asks, wary and concerned all at once. “What happened?”

“Are there showers on this ship?” Charles asks him. He’s distantly aware that he probably looks like he’s seen a ghost, face ashen and panting like he’s just run a mile instead of only a short staircase. “I just—I really need a shower.”

Erik relaxes by a few degrees, looking faintly relieved as he nods. “Yes, there are. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you when you were up yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Charles asks faintly.

“You’ve slept for another ten hours or so,” Erik replies carefully, sounding like he’s trying not to reveal how closely he’d been keeping track. “How do you feel?”

Still exhausted, Charles thinks as he studies Erik wearily. It’s going to take him longer than a full day of sleep to recover from the nightmare he’d lived for almost six months. “I just want a shower,” he says instead, though there’s no bite in his voice. “And a change of clothes.”

“I’ll show you where they are,” Erik offers at once, “and then I can go find you clean clothes.”

“Yes,” Charles agrees, grateful and relieved. He takes a tiny half step forward automatically when Erik crosses the room towards him, but Erik merely edges past him without touching him, keeping a careful distance between them.

“This way,” he says unnecessarily over his shoulder, and heads back down the stairs. Charles follows him and tries not to feel like he’s been knocked off-kilter by the lack of comforting touch.

Erik takes him back down to the hallway where Charles’ room is and taps on the wall panel outside the very first door near the stairs. “Bathroom’s just here,” he says, standing aside so Charles can slip past him and step inside. “Toilet’s to the left and shower stalls are to the right. I’ll go find you a towel and clothes.”

“Thank you,” Charles says, starting to look back at him, but the door slides closed between them and he’s alone.

A brief inspection of the left side of the bathroom that reveals two separate toilet stalls and a counter with three sinks. There’s a mirror over the sinks and Charles comes to a dead stop as he catches sight of himself, looking at his reflection for the first time since before Shaw took him from Erik.

At first he doesn’t even recognize himself. He looks as filthy as he feels, his hair matted and snarled from sleep. Impossibly enough he looks like he’s dropped even more weight in the past few days than he has in the past few months overall, his clothes nearly draping off his body and his face gaunt, cheeks sharp and pale. Anna Marie may have healed his bones but just like the rest of his body his throat is still a mottled mass of dark bruises, painful to even look at, and there’s a large shadow of a bruise across his face from when Shaw had backhanded him. It only serves to accentuate the nasty scrape above his brow leftover from where the pirate’s club had caught him.

His eyes are dead and haunted, and Charles can’t bear to face himself any longer.

Charles moves over to the other side of the room where the showers are. There are four stalls in a row, each roomier than the one in his quarters back on the Serenity, and tiled with what looks like some kind of strange underwater scene straight out of a child’s coloring book. Grinning cartoon fish aside, they all appear to be spotlessly clean, which somehow does and does not surprise Charles all at once given what little he can remember of the five minutes tops he’s spent with the captain of this ship.

He picks the stall at the very end of the row, furthest down from the door, and since he’s currently the only one in the bathroom he strips out of his filthy clothes quickly, shuddering as he peels off his shirt that’s stiff with dried semen. His hands shake slightly as he kicks off his boots and yanks down his pants, leaving everything in a pile on the low bench that runs along the opposite wall of the stalls and then he hurtles into the shower, slamming the door shut a little harder than he actually means to, the sound echoing loudly off the walls.

Charles slides the small latch on the door shut to lock it, and then hits the panel to start the water and closes his eyes as warm water immediately spurts out of the showerhead in the ceiling, washing over his head and shoulders. He cranks up the temperature until the water is near-scalding and for a few long minutes all he does is stand underneath the water and let it rush over him, shaking with full-body trembles as all his muscles slowly lose their tension.

Eventually he spurs himself into action, mechanically reaching over to the three dispensers on the wall that are carefully labeled as body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. He goes for the shampoo first, lathering up his hair and scrubbing at his scalp before dunking his head back under the water, closing his eyes as the soap runs down his face.

He’s halfway through lathering up his hair for a second time when he hears the bathroom door slide open again and Charles freezes before Erik calls, “Charles? It’s me.”

“Down here,” Charles unlocks his muscles to answer, even though he’s the only one in the bathroom anyway.

Footsteps approach and then Erik’s voice comes from right outside the stall door. “I’ll leave everything on the bench here.”

“Thanks.” Charles stands very still, hot water hitting his back and his arms still lifted, soapy hands tangled in his hair. “Can you—my old clothes. Would you please…” He has to swallow back a lump in his throat. “Can you make sure they’re burned?”

“Yes,” Erik answers, voice inflectionless. There’s a soft rustle of fabric beneath the sound of the water as he gathers the garments up. Charles feels oddly guilty, because the clothes probably reek on top of how disgusting they are to begin with, but his desire to never see them again outweighs everything else. “Need anything else?”

Charles stares at the drops of condensation that have formed on the stall door from the steam of the shower. The door isn’t made of metal but the latch is. It would be easy for Erik to unlock it with his powers and slip inside to join him, and they could shower together like last time. They wouldn’t even have to have sex. Erik could just touch him, with his gentle, familiar hands, so Charles could forget about the feeling of Shaw’s hands on him and erase all memory of Shaw’s touch from his mind and replace it with just Erik.

“Charles?”

He blinks, startled out of longing. “Sorry, no,” he says quickly, tilting his head back into the water to wash the shampoo out of his hair with a wet splatter. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Erik says, and then falls silent. It’s still a few moments before Charles hears the bathroom door open and shut again.

Charles lets out a long, juddering breath. It’s better this way, he reminds himself. Neither of them owe each other anything.

He moves on automatic for the rest of his shower, washing his hair for a third time just because he can before finally moving on to the conditioner. He only does that once but spends an exceptionally long time making sure all of it has washed out of his hair, his mind blank and empty as he runs his fingers through his hair over and over again. He isn’t shaking anymore, the tremors having run their course.

He’s halfway through slathering himself with the body wash when the bathroom door opens again, and heavy footsteps echo off the walls as someone enters the room. Before he knows it Charles is plastered back against the shower wall, heart pounding as one of the toilet stall doors slams shut, fear ballooning up in his chest, suffocating.

And then it hits him like a freight ship—the person on the other end of the bathroom isn’t an inmate who’s going to come over to Charles’ stall after finishing their business and pound on the door and demand to be let in. He doesn’t have to worry that he’ll be easy pickings since he’s in here by himself. He doesn’t have to worry about being raped because he isn’t on the Serenity anymore, he got away, he’s _safe_.

Charles stays pressed back against the wall while the toilet flushes and the stall door bangs open again, unmoving while the sink runs for a few seconds followed by the jet dryer. As soon as the bathroom door closes and he’s alone again, Charles slides down the wall to huddle down into a tight ball on the floor, knees pressed up against his chest and his face hidden in his hands. He’d known that he was free, but now it’s finally starting to really sink in and it’s like a dam in his chest has burst open, flooding him with emotions that he can’t even begin to fully process, hitting him one after another like waves against a wharf in a storm.

He survived. It’s over, he’s going home. The body wash is slowly dripping down his skin where he’s still half-under the spray of water, soapsuds swirling down the drain. He’s shaking again, trembling restarted in earnest as he shivers on the shower floor but he makes no move to get up, staying exactly as he is while his mind churns, bouncing back and forth between reliving the past week of horrors and a deep-seated sense of relief that it’s finally _over_.

The water starts to run lukewarm, losing its heat the longer Charles stays hunkered down against the wall. He still can’t bring himself to move. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes and he thinks he might actually want to cry this time but they don’t fall, building up hot and heavy behind his eyes but he still doesn’t cry. Distantly, he wonders if he’s forgotten how to.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like this. The water is starting to get truly cold when the bathroom door opens and footsteps approach his stall, coming to a stop right outside the door. “Charles?” Erik asks, almost tentative, as if he’s unsure of his welcome. “Are you still in there?”

Charles lifts his head slowly, bleary and exhausted. He opens his mouth half-heartedly to answer but no sound comes out. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s afraid that if he does try to speak, he’ll end up begging Erik to come in and hold him, which he knows Erik doesn’t want. Erik’s been trying to give him space and leave Charles alone, and if that’s what he wants Charles doesn’t want to ruin it.

He’s paused for too long because Erik takes a deep breath and says, “I’m going to open the door.”

The latch slides back on its own and the door is pushed open careful and slow—to give him time to slam it shut again if Charles wanted to, he thinks dimly. But Charles doesn’t move, just looks up at Erik wearily where he stands in the doorway of the stall, curled in on himself and shaking.

Something in Erik’s expression crumbles and breaks, and a second later he’s pulling off his shirt and kicking off his boots but leaving his pants on as he steps into the stall, pulling the door shut with his powers and locking it behind him. He mutters a curse when he steps into the cold spray of water, slamming his hand on the panel to dial up the heat and Charles shudders when the water gets hot again, warming the chill that’s seeped through him down to his bones.

Erik sinks down beside Charles with his back to the wall, scooting over close to him so that their sides touch and then he wraps an arm around Charles’ shoulders, gently pulling him even closer. “Hey,” he says, soft and quiet beneath the sound of the water, “you’re alright now. You’re safe.”

“I know,” Charles says thickly, leaning into Erik and turning his head to bury his face in Erik’s shoulder, “I know, I just—”

His voice cuts out, unable to finish and he closes his eyes as they blur with tears at last, and then he’s crying, sobbing into Erik’s shoulder as all of the fear, anxiety, and horror bleeds out of him all at once. Erik doesn’t say anything, just keeps his arm warm and firm around Charles and holds him close to his side, leaning his own head sideways to rest his cheek on Charles’ head.

Now that he’s started, Charles can’t stop, his chest heaving with sobs that wrack his lungs and leave him short of breath. He isn’t even sure why he’s crying, but maybe there’s no one single reason. He cries out of sheer relief that he escaped alive and intact, that he gets to go home to Raven and Irene, his family. He cries because all he’d endured had happened to him in the first place, and he’s finally having the chance to look at the past few months in any other kind of light aside from a clinical do-what-must-be-done-to-survive mindset. He cries because he’s actually beginning to process how fucked up everything was, how fucked up he’s going to be for the rest of his life, because of this. How they had to leave other people behind to continue living in and enduring that hell.

He thinks he should feel mortified for crying all over Erik while Erik sits half-dressed in the shower and holds onto him, but Charles finds that he doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed. Slowly, gradually, his breathing evens out and he runs out of tears, completely wrung out. He’s emotionally exhausted, all of them leached out of his body and washed away down the drain and leaving him hollow-chested and numb. It’s like he’s been emptied out and now there’s nothing left.

Beyond that sense of emptiness, however, is a slowly growing feeling of peace. He’d needed to cry and let it all out in cathartic release. Now he can start to cope. Collect up his pieces and move on.

Charles leans into Erik while Erik holds onto him, and neither of them moves for a long, long time.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning for brief flashbacks to graphic scenes.

Every day they spend on Wade Wilson’s ship is one surreal dream after another. There’s enough food for everyone anytime they want it. They can sleep and laugh and go wherever they want without repercussions. No one will beat them for speaking out of line. It’s a miracle of the highest order and Charles lives every minute of it half-expecting to wake up.

Without question, the best part of their freedom isn’t the food or even the feeling of security: it’s his telepathy. With the collar off, the inhibitors wear off slowly, and his power filters back in in bits and pieces. When he first feels the tickle of another mind against his for the first time in months, he almost sobs in relief. He’s lucky it happens in his own room, where there are no witnesses to see how he collapses to his knees in surprise and devastating joy.

That first whisper is the crack in the dam: the hated barrier in his head crumbles day by day, and soon he can reach out again and feel everyone, see everyone, _hear_ everyone. The world is fully real again, like switching from fuzzy black-and-white to full HD in technicolor.

The only thing that keeps these from being the best days of Charles’ life is Erik’s distance. He understands it, he really does. It’ll be less painful for them both to sever ties now rather than drawing out a goodbye. But ever since he’d sat with Charles on the shower floor, Erik doesn’t speak to him, doesn’t seek him out, doesn’t try to explain or clarify anything about where they might stand in regards to one another. He’s so elusive that if it weren’t for Charles’ telepathy, it might have been impossible to locate him in the ship—and even then, Erik’s is the only mind Charles hasn’t directly touched: he’s aware of Erik’s mind, like anyone else would be of a person standing in their periphery, but he hasn’t reached out to touch, to look at Erik straight on.

He tries to tell himself it’s self-preservation and not the fear of being rebuked.

At the very least, everything and everyone else on the ship keeps him distracted. Darwin and Alex are always willing to keep him company. Darwin will come out of this the most unscathed, Charles thinks, and Alex seems ten times lighter now that they’re free and Darwin still jokes and laughs with him. Charles and Angel sit together after dinner and talk about the foods they miss most about Corellia. Neither of them talk about the Serenity, but Charles recognizes the same hardness in Angel’s eyes that he sees in his own every time he catches his reflection in a mirror. Wade and Logan pick his brain on piloting tips, and Wade even teaches him to maneuver his ship, which he proudly tells Charles was built from parts scavenged from every ship he’s ever encountered.

“Where did you find a scrap yard that carries filuranium plating?” Charles asks, admiring the shiny, golden patch of wall beside the piloting console. “I’ve never seen filuranium thrown away. I thought it was always recycled.”

“I didn’t say I scavenged from _scrap yards_ ,” Wade scoffs, as if the idea is absolutely absurd. “I just take pieces from every ship I visit.”

Charles stares at him. “As in…you take pieces from other people’s ships? That they’re still using?”

“Yup. Don’t worry, I don’t take anything _really_ important. Just the cool things.”

“Where did you get the engine then?” Charles demands.

Wade pauses, his lips pursed. “Okay, I guess that was kinda important. But Natty didn’t mind. I think.” His eyes widen comically. “Shit, is _that_ why he’s got that bounty on my head? I always thought it was because I folded all his socks into paper cranes and let them fly out an airlock. I _told_ him they wanted to be free but he didn’t believe me. Until one of them shit in his shoes, and didn’t _that_ show him _, hah!_ ”

Wade, Charles decides, is certifiably insane, but he’s strangely likeable. And his ship is actually quite ingeniously designed, and Charles, who’s fascinated by odd piloting systems, spends hours upon hours on the bridge studying the design. When he’s not doing that, he’s hanging out in the lounge with the others or catching cat naps just because he can. Nothing feels better than leaving rooms and eating and going to bed anytime he wants. He’d never realized how many freedoms he’d taken for granted until he’d lost them.

Every day, he makes a point to visit the last room on the left in the sleeping quarters, where Hank has put Anna Marie and Kevin, who panics whenever she leaves his side. Though he seems only minimally conscious of what’s going on around him, he glues himself to Anna Marie’s side and flinches anytime anyone else comes near him. Only Anna Marie is allowed to touch him without his going wild with fear, and even then, she can only calm him so much.

“I’m afraid his mind might be broken beyond repair,” Hank says grimly. “He suffered some terrible traumas on that ship. It would be enough to drive anyone mad.”

“There’s nothing you can give him?” Charles asks, his brow furrowed. “No healing therapies, nothing?”

“I’ve tried everything I can with my limited resources. I’d suggest psionic therapy but…well. You’re not exactly trained but you’re welcome to try to make a difference if you want. I just advise you to be extra careful since you haven’t used your powers in so long. Overexertion is a real possibility.”

“I’ll be careful,” Charles promises.

That evening, Anna Marie lets him into their room and says, “Stay in the corner of the room and don’t try to get close to him. I don’t know if he’ll be able to tell if you’re in his head or not and in either case I’m not sure how he’ll react, so better not crowd him just in case.”

“Okay.”

As he situates himself in the single chair in the corner by the door, Anna Marie goes over to the bed and sits down on its edge. Kevin, who had woken up the instant the door opened, gives them both mistrustful stares but allows Anna Marie to remain on the bed with him.

“Just relax, sweetie,” Anna Marie says gently. “Charles is going to try to help you.”

“This won’t hurt,” Charles murmurs, closing his eyes. He hasn’t tried extending his mind like this since the prison break, but it comes as naturally to him as breathing: he drops his shields and unravels the threads of his telepathy, like casting fishing lines out into the sea of foreign thoughts around him. Anna Marie’s mind is a calm, gray sea. He can sense a darkness underneath that would make itself known if he dipped his fingers in, but he refrains from exploring. Instead he turns his attention to the other mental signature in the room, one that leaves a bad taste in his mouth even before he touches it.

Just a light skim along Kevin’s mind reveals a twisted, chaotic landscape that resembles a picture he’d see in a warped mirror. He’s only felt a mind this damaged once or twice in his life. It makes him want to shrink away but he fights away the urge and presses in deeper. There’s very little sense of self that he can determine, only a general, animalistic awareness that understands and processes the necessities of survival.

“Is he…?” he hears Anna Marie ask distantly.

“Mm,” he says, eyes still closed. “Let me see.”

Nothing for it. He can’t assess the exact level of damage without going in. So, steeling himself, he plunges through Kevin’s defenses and rushes down, down, down.

He’s not at all prepared for what he finds. He should have known, should have expected to be overwhelmed with fear, but the sheer, breathless terror lurking just inside Kevin’s psyche hits him full in the chest and knocks his control away. He slips and sinks deeper than he intends, deeper than he realizes. For a moment, he stands in a darkened hallway, alone. There’s a single door to his right, the brass handle singed and chipped. After a moment of hesitation, he pushes it open.

Shaw is there. Shaw and Atul and a hundred other inmates he doesn’t know and can’t name, and all of them are leering at him, hooting at him, spinning round and round around him, faster and faster until he gets so dizzy he falls down. And then, out of nowhere, Shaw is beside him, on top of him, in him, whispering, “You’re mine, mine, _mine_ ,” and then his face morphs into Atul’s, who huffs as he thrusts brutishly into him, inky teeth sinking into his shoulder—and then it’s not just one man, it’s five, and they’re all raping him, all at once, and he can’t scream because there’s a cock in his mouth and it tastes like fire in his throat and someone is cutting him apart, driving a knife into his ribs again and again until his lungs are full of blood and he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ —

_“Charles!_ ”

He snaps back into himself with half a scream trapped in his throat. Someone’s holding him, pinning his arms to his side, and he lashes out in terror and feels his elbow connect solidly with someone’s flesh. His captor releases him with a grunt, allowing him to scramble away on his hands and knees, his whole body shaking.

After a long minute, full consciousness returns to him, the narrow tunnel in his vision gradually widening out to include the rest of the world, and he remembers again exactly who he is and what he was doing. When he looks up, Anna Marie is kneeling by his side, looking as if she wants to reach out to him. To his surprise, Erik also crouches nearby, his eyes wide.

“Charles?” Anna Marie asks gently. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m—” He has to take a deep breath before he can speak again. “I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting…that.”

“What the hell were you doing?” Erik demands.

“I went into his mind. I was just trying to see exactly where he was fractured. To see if I could fix anything.” He looks over at the bed and, to his horror, sees that Kevin is lying crumpled in the corner of the bed against the wall, his eyes closed. “Oh shit, I didn’t—he’s not…”

“He’s alive,” Anna Marie reassures him. “I made sure before I came to you. I think you might have knocked him out with whatever you did.”

“You might have almost knocked everyone out,” Erik says, rubbing his temple with a wince.

Charles grimaces. “I’m sorry. Is everyone else okay?”

“I don’t know. I was in my room when I felt you…in my head.” Erik’s eyes scan him over, sharp and worried. “You sounded hurt.”

“His head isn’t pretty.” Charles exhales and then gingerly climbs to his feet. He’s not hurt, but he’s got a killer headache now. “I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do for him. Not in a short time anyway. Let me just sit down for a minute and then I’ll look again—”

“You’re not looking again,” Erik says severely. He rises, and, after the briefest of hesitations, takes Charles’ elbow. “You’re going to have Hank look at you and give you something for that headache.”

“How did you—?”

“Because my head is killing me, too. Come on.”

He allows Erik to pull him from the room back across the hall to his own room. Erik pushes him down to sit on his bed and then stands there for a moment, looking torn.

“Can you sleep?” Charles asks quietly, running a hand down his thigh. “At night, I mean.”

Erik releases a breath. “Not well.”

“Me neither.” He doesn’t mention how he wakes up with tears streaming down his face sometimes, or how he’s woken up more than once with terror clawing up his chest and how it takes him nearly an hour to calm down enough to sleep again. He suspects Erik knows.

“I should get Hank,” Erik says, looking away and turning as if to make for the door.

“No,” Charles says quickly, “don’t bother him. I’ll be fine.” Even to his own ears he doesn’t sound entirely reassuring, but at least Erik has stopped, and doesn’t make any more movements towards the door. A silence descends, and Charles doesn’t know what to do. What to say, aside from what he desperately wants to say.

After a moment, Erik moves slowly back towards the bed and sits down next to him, not touching but close enough for either of them to reach out. “Would you mind if I…” Uncertainty skitters along the edges of his mind. If not for the awful pain pounding through his head, Charles might have been tempted to touch it. “Do you want me to stay?”

Heart in his throat, Charles asks, “Do you want to stay?”

Erik presses his mouth into a thin line. Then he admits, “Yes.”

“Yes,” Charles echoes, deeply relieved and trying not to show it. “Stay.”

The bed isn’t quite large enough for the two of them, but that just means they have to press closer together to fit and Charles has no issues with that. He burrows into Erik’s chest and sighs as Erik wraps his arms around him, warm and firm.

“Alright?” Erik asks, a little stiff.

“More than,” Charles murmurs, running a hand down Erik’s spine.

At that, he relaxes at last, bending his head to press his nose into Charles’ hair. But his hand at Charles’ back is curled into a fist. After a long few minutes, he says through gritted teeth, “I don’t want you to go.”

Charles stills. “Erik…”

“I would never ask you to stay with me,” Erik says roughly. “You deserve to go home. But I don’t want you to go.”

“Erik, please…” Not a confession now. He can’t handle a confession now, not when it’s going to be meaningless in the end.

Erik falls silent, but the emotion radiating from his unshielded mind is impossible to ignore. He’s saying everything without saying a word and it’s killing Charles to know.

“Let’s just sleep,” he says, closing his eyes. “Please.”

Erik sighs softly. “Alright.”

Charles drops off to sleep with the sensation of Erik’s fist slowly uncurling at his back.

 

*

 

Charles wakes up twice in the night.

The first time he’s pushed back into consciousness on the tail-end of a nightmare, eyes flying open wide with an aborted sob, sweaty and struggling in the hold on him in the dark, telepathy coiling and ready to lash out. Then his mind brushes against Erik’s, who is awake already and rolls onto his back, taking Charles with him so that Charles lies on top of him, chest-to-chest while Erik rubs his back slowly, up and down, up and down, still holding him but not trapping him. It takes Charles a long time to fall asleep again, adrenaline still pumping through him and lingering vestiges of fear lapping at the peripheries of his mind, but eventually he drifts off still resting on top of Erik with Erik’s hand ceaselessly stroking his back, calm and soothing.

The second time is in the early hours of the morning, when he’s jolted awake by Erik shifting beneath him restlessly, caught in the throes of a nightmare of his own. Charles slips off him to the side to avoid being thrown off, and then gently tugs Erik over, slipping briefly into his mind to push the nightmare away without looking deeply enough to see what it is. Erik comes readily, shifting onto his side without waking and automatically wrapping around Charles again, crushing their bodies close with a grip so strong that Charles wouldn’t be able to get away even if he wanted to.

Charles falls asleep with his arms around Erik, holding onto him just as tightly.

 

*

 

In the morning they wake within moments of each other. They’ve shifted around again in their last few hours of sleep, ending up with Charles’ back pressed against the wall with Erik pressed against his front to keep him there, safe and enclosed. For the first time Charles is limp and relaxed upon waking, not tensed and afraid until he remembers again where he is.

He doesn’t want to be afraid. He’s tired of fear constantly dogging him, but he knows it’s not something that’s going to go away overnight. Maybe it can, though, with Erik here to help make him feel safe.

One of Erik’s hands strokes Charles’ hair absently as they study each other quietly. Charles can feel Erik’s mind churning, a novelty in of itself as this is the first time he’s sharing a bed with Erik with full access to his telepathy. Erik’s mind is unshielded but quiet, not overwhelming but bright, like the distant twinkle of faraway stars, beautiful across otherwise barren skies.

Charles is used to being able to connect with people through their minds—not intruding, just brushing across the surface of their thoughts—but he’d never had that taken-for-granted luxury with Erik. His connection to Erik is purely emotional, born from being blocked from his telepathy but also through surviving together, protecting each other albeit in very different ways, and coming to love each other. It’s why his attachment to Erik is so strong. There were no telepathic shortcuts; he was attracted to Erik even without fully knowing his mind, and now that Charles can feel it brushing alongside his own…

“Shaw never did fuck me,” he says quietly, because that’s the concern Erik is projecting the loudest without meaning to. “He did vile things to me, but he never had the chance to fuck me.”

Erik lets out a shaky breath, so relieved and guilty all at once that Charles’ heart hurts. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—I should never have—”

“I never blamed you,” Charles interrupts him gently, “it isn’t your fault. Not entirely, anyway. I kissed you back.”

“Charles,” Erik breathes, a little helplessly, looking down at him, painfully in love but too afraid to voice it.

“I need to know where we stand,” Charles says, hesitant, because it’s one thing to read all of Erik’s emotions coming off of him like radiation from a supernova and another thing entirely to hear Erik confirm it, either through direct thoughts or words spoken aloud. He hadn’t wanted to hear any kind of confession last night when he was still too shaken from his trip into Kevin’s mind, but now Charles rested and his mind is clear. “I really—I need to know, Erik.”

Tentatively, Erik reaches down between them to grasp one of Charles’ hands, slowly drawing it upwards so Charles’ fingers rest against his temple, the universal sign of telepathic exchange. Charles doesn’t actually need the contact in order to read someone’s mind, but his breath catches in his chest at the implications, at what Erik is offering.

“Are you sure?” he asks softly. He wants more than anything to fully immerse himself in Erik’s mind at last, but he doesn’t want it if Erik is only offering out a twisted sense of obligation, like he owes Charles this but doesn’t actually want it himself.

“You let me inside you and trusted me not to hurt you,” Erik says, and even though that’s an entirely different matter Charles can feel Erik’s steadfast conviction, “and I want to give you the same.” His own hand that rests against Charles’ head strokes Charles’ temple gently, so their positions are mirrored. “Come in, Charles.”

Charles takes a breath and falls into Erik.

Erik’s mind is all sharp edges and careful calculation, and while it’s clear to Charles that he’s never had any kind of experience with telepaths or telepathy before, his mind accepts Charles’ presence at once, drawing him in where no one else in all the galaxy would be welcome. He offers Charles a memory first, jumbled before Charles deftly reaches forward to hold him steady.

Together they watch Erik seeing Charles for the first time, taking him in coolly where Charles is crumpled down on the deck of the Serenity’s bridge, inhibitor collar heavy around his throat but glaring up at Erik fiercely, afraid but unwilling to let it control him. Charles feels Erik’s assessment of him, mildly impressed with Charles, especially after Charles spits out that he’s a telepath. He feels Erik’s sharp annoyance with Shaw when Charles screams as Shaw crushes his hand, Erik’s thought of _I need this one, he’ll be useful if Shaw doesn’t break him first._

Charles sees Erik acknowledge to himself that he finds Charles attractive, and sees Erik brush the attraction aside as pointless and implausible, not once tempted to act on it, even for a second. Erik hadn’t lied when he’d sworn to Charles that he hadn’t picked Charles out to fuck him. He really only ever had chosen Charles—at first—for his piloting skills.

_That changed, of course_ , Erik admits silently, almost rueful despite the fact that Charles is in his mind where there’s nowhere to hide.

He shows Charles next his frustration at Charles each time Charles fought him, and then later his shame and anger at himself for resorting to violence to get Charles to cooperate, his silent apologies thought over and over to himself after using the collar around Charles’ throat to choke him or push him around. Erik doesn’t offer the memories up as an excuse, he merely shows them to Charles briefly with a flash of _I was wrong, I was wrong_ , before his memory skips ahead to the first night they’d had sex, and Charles looks down at himself on the bed through Erik’s eyes and sees how visibly afraid he’d been, even with all his best efforts of control.

In the memory, Erik’s mind is nothing but a litany of self-disgust, dark loathing for Shaw, and _don’t hurt him don’t hurt him don’t hurt him_ as he gazes down at Charles.

Charles watches Erik’s reasoning for protecting Charles grow slowly more and more distorted, starting with wanting to protect Charles in order to guard him as an asset, as a pilot for the e-pod, before it begins to twist, turning into caring for Charles’ wellbeing because it only seems right, and finally becoming a mantra for Erik to follow at all cost, protecting Charles because he can’t bear the thought of seeing him hurt or allowing anyone to harm him.

He sees Erik’s worry as Charles drops weight, the diet of nutri paste not enough, and feels Erik’s relief and delight at being able to bring cafeteria meals of real food back to the room for Charles to inhale, satisfied with the idea that for now, Charles would feel full for awhile and not be hungry.

Erik shows him how he grappled with the realization that he was beginning to enjoy their sex, not because he was getting off but because he was beginning to truly like Charles. He shows Charles how at first he was ashamed for daring to feel good when it was still obvious that Charles was only spreading his legs for Erik in order to survive. How Erik had hated himself then, too, because it felt like taking advantage. How despite his best efforts of compartmentalizing he’d still wanted to make Charles feel good, how he’d still chased after Charles’ rare smile and even more elusive laugh, usually given from the other side of the chessboard. How he’d fallen for Charles anyway, without even fully realizing it until it was far too late, inevitable as a planet falling in to circle around a star.

_That’s where we stand_ , Erik tells him, laid open bare, even more vulnerable than Charles had ever been beneath him. _I have no right to you, not after everything I’ve put you through. When the time comes, I will let you go. But I want you, Charles. It’s been killing me to stay away._ His mind flashes to thoughts of giving Charles the space Erik believes Charles wants and deserves, of keeping away from Charles because Erik didn’t want him to think that he would ever stand between Charles and his rightful freedom. _But I still want you so much._

_Erik_ , Charles thinks, so deeply entwined with him that Erik has become his entire universe, _Erik_. Gently he pulls Erik towards him, opening his own mind. _My turn_.

Erik starts in surprise as Charles’ memories unfold this time, showing him how afraid Charles had been of him at first, uncertain of what Erik wanted from him and fearful of what Erik was going to do to him. He shows Erik his initial horror at being made to have sex with him, his bitter hatred directed mostly towards Shaw and sometimes at Erik during Charles’ lower points.

Charles doesn’t linger here long, skipping ahead like Erik to show him how he’d gradually warmed to Erik too, how after only the first few weeks of their arrangement he’d already accepted that Erik would protect him, and how he’d even felt safe beside him whenever they’d had to walk the Serenity’s halls. It had never escaped Charles how gentle Erik was with him during sex, even when he had to mark him with bites and bruises. He shows Erik how he’d been confused by this, even after Erik had explained that he was only sleeping with Charles under duress from Shaw, how sometimes it’d even frustrate Charles. How it had made it hard to hate or fear Erik, even while at his mercy.

He shows Erik the exact moment he’d realized he loved Erik, when Erik had shaved him that second time. He’d suspected first that Erik might love him, before it’d dawned on him with unshakeable certainty that he loves Erik back.

_I do_ , Erik thinks with steadfast conviction as the memories fade away, leaving just the two of them pressed mind-to-mind. _I love you_.

_I know you do_ , Charles says with a wet laugh, distantly aware of how his eyes have grown damp in the world beyond their joined minds. The sound makes Erik’s mind light up, an entire galaxy of stars so bright that they nearly overwhelm Charles, so he gently withdraws, untangling them but not going far, tendrils of his power still curled in Erik’s mind like they’ve always belonged there, to keep them connected. _I love you too._

When he comes back to himself physically, they’re still in the same position as before; lying on their sides facing one another, fingers brushing each other’s temples. Charles has never been closer to anyone in his entire life before, not even Raven. He and Erik met through the strangest series of chances, under terrible conditions and awful circumstances, and yet here they are.

Together. Not whole, because Charles thinks he’s had too many pieces of himself chipped off in the last few months and Erik has been carrying his losses around for years and years now. But he knows that they just might fit each other, malleable enough to fill in each other’s cracks and crevices until they make a whole, greater even than the sum of its parts.

Erik wraps an arm tightly around him. “I don’t deserve you,” he says aloud, voice hoarse.

Charles smiles, slow and soft. “You’re a better man than you think you are, Erik.”

When he tilts his head to press their mouths together, Erik meets him hungrily, eagerly. It's an entirely new experience, to be tasting Erik's mouth and his mind at the same time, and it scares him to realize that he could become addicted to Erik's mind as easily as he's become addicted to Erik's everything else. He's not sure how he can let Erik go after knowing him inside and out. But he knows he's got no choice.

“I wish you could come to Corellia with me,” he says quietly once they’ve parted, whispering the words somewhere in the vicinity of Erik’s neck where he’s buried his face, breathing Erik in. They both know that it’s impossible for Erik to set foot on Corellia, especially given the reason for his sentence. “But I want to go home. I _need_ to go home.”

“I promised to get you there,” Erik answers, “and I already told you that I want you to stay. But Charles, I would _never_ keep you from leaving.”

“I believe you, darling,” Charles assures him, because the sincerity behind Erik’s words is projecting out from him like the emissions of a quasar, loud and unmistakable. “I trust you.”

Erik heaves out a shuddering sigh, his relief that Charles understands him, that Charles _trusts_ him, washing across Charles in a warm wave.

“Erik…” Charles trails off hesitantly, choosing his words carefully. “I know that parting isn’t going to be easy. I love you with a depth that frightens me because I can’t see the bottom, and I don’t want you to go, but I think...I think we also might need the space.”

“You need time,” Erik says gently, calm and accepting even though Charles can feel that he isn’t entirely happy about the idea of being apart from Charles. Charles can relate. “I know. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Charles. You’ve already given me everything else.”

“I want to, though,” Charles says, shifting backwards a little so they can look at each other. “I need the time. I need the space. But I don’t want it to start now. Not while we’re still on the same ship.”

“Anything you’d like, Charles,” Erik says, voice barely above a whisper, “anything at all.”

“Then I want you to be _free_ after you see me and the others back to Corellia,” Charles says, quiet but firm. “Don’t squander this on trying to kill Stryker again and wind up right back where you started. I need you to be free,” he repeats when Erik opens his mouth, “so that one day you can come back to me.”

Erik closes his mouth, silent and thoughtful as he runs a hand along Charles’ shoulder. Charles doesn’t tap into his thoughts to listen, just watches Erik’s contemplative expression while Erik studies him equally in turn. It’s grown late enough in the morning now that the others must be wondering where he and Erik are, but they can wait. They’re all billions of light years away from Charles and Erik’s private universe of two.

“And for right now?” Erik asks at last, and it takes Charles a moment to understand what he means.

That, at least, is easy. “Right now I want you to hold me,” Charles answers, shifting closer so he can hold Erik too, “and I want you to kiss me, just because we can.”

“I can do that,” Erik murmurs, his arms around Charles and his lips brushing against Charles’ with every syllable before the distance is finally nonexistent, and after that time ceases to exist but Charles can finally say for the first time in days, wrapped in Erik’s arms and wrapped around Erik’s mind, he’s finally, truly warm.

 

*

 

The days slip by faster after that, the OZs flying by as the ship hurtles closer and closer towards the Inner Zones where Corellia and the rest of civilization awaits. Charles makes the calculations himself up on Wade’s bridge: the smaller ship, with its faster engine than the Serenity’s much older repurposed one, will arrive back in the outermost IZ by the end of the month. From there it’s just another twelve days to Corellia. It’s a bittersweet feeling, to know that he’s getting closer and closer to home even while his time with Erik is running out.

He and Erik spend nearly every waking moment together, eating their meals together and passing the time by sitting side-by-side in the lounge room, sharing a data pad and taking turns picking which news article to read next. It turns out that there’s been an enormous public outcry over the Serenity going missing, every media channel having a field day with lampooning IF Command for allowing a ship full of dangerous criminals to be turned loose on the galaxy, accusations and public hearings growing nastier and nastier with each of the IF’s failed attempts to locate the ship. Charles sees poor Moira quoted in more than one article that he and Erik read, trying to assure the public that the IF is doing everything in its power to recover the missing ship. He can only imagine how they’re all going to react when a small ragtag band of Serenity crewmembers suddenly shows up alive.

One of the articles focuses on some of the families of the crewmembers waiting for any kind of news, and his heart leaps when his eyes find Raven’s name in the text. It’s an older article, dating within the first month or so of the Serenity’s disappearance, so she’s described as heavily pregnant but unshakably composed.

“I just want my brother back,” her quote reads, “I don’t care about pointing fingers at who’s to blame for allowing this to happen, the focus needs to be on finding that ship. I want my brother to come home.”

Erik scrolls through the rest of the article slowly but Charles has stopped reading, heart beating so hard he thinks it may burst. He’s going to see Raven again. He’ll get to hug her and kiss her and meet her baby, his little niece or nephew, and he’ll get to hug and kiss Irene too and he’s going _home_ to his _family_ , who for the longest time he’d believed he would never see again.

“We’re close enough to where a message might get through,” Erik says gently, watching Charles’ face, “you can send one ahead and tell her you’re alive and coming back.”

Charles lets out a shaky breath. “No, it’s alright. Any message she or anyone else gets from someone claiming to be from the Serenity’s crew will be instantly traced, and it’d be poor thanks to you, Wade, and the others to bring the IF down on this ship.” When Erik doesn’t look entirely convinced, Charles gives him a small smile. “I’ll see her soon enough anyway.”

“Alright,” Erik agrees, and wraps an arm around Charles to tug him a little closer.

Erik even sits with Charles up on the bridge when Charles goes up to take the shift he’d volunteered himself for. Sometimes they sit in silence, side-by-side and looking out at the stars through the viewscreen, content to merely hold hands and soak in each other’s presence. Logan sometimes joins them, or even Angel, and conversation topics can range from ship mechanics to which settlement team has the best chances at the next interplanetary games. Other times, when it’s just the two of them again, Charles pulls up a game of chess on the ship’s computer after he makes the discovery that Wade has downloaded a nearly impossible amount of games, and they play each other, switching off taking turns and talking about nothing and everything.

At night, they curl around each other to sleep. Erik has all but moved into Charles’ room entirely, and it’s Charles’ greatest comfort after jolting out of a nightmare to find that Erik’s already soothing him, and being able to soothe Erik in turn when he shakes awake from twisted dreams. They don’t have sex, and while Charles can still tell Erik wants him Erik never even thinks of asking, well aware without even having to be told that while Charles wants Erik too, he’s had enough sex in the past few months to last him several more. He just wants to be held, and touched without any sexual intent, and Erik is more than happy to oblige.

Their close contact isn’t entirely a secret. Logan notices, and from what little Charles can actually glean from his mind when it doesn’t sound like an Old Earth radio with bad reception, he doesn’t care one way or the other. Angel thinks they’re sweet but sad, and Alex and Darwin are too wrapped up in themselves to care—especially after Charles wakes one morning with explicit and accidentally acquired knowledge that they’d finally consummated their relationship the night before, having never once slept together back on the Serenity. He’s happy for them, since he can feel how happy they both are too, but like Angel he’s also sad; they too will have to decide what to do as the return to Corellia looms closer and closer.

Hank is another matter. Charles can feel him watching them whenever they’re in any of the common areas together, but the doctor always holds his tongue and keeps his mind carefully shielded, which Charles appreciates and respects. He finally catches Charles alone in Kevin’s room, where Charles still tries to go and sit with Kevin for at least an hour every day to give Anna Marie a break. Erik never joins him, mostly out of the courtesy of not frightening Kevin, who is still wary of everyone, and also because he uses the time to talk with Logan and Wade to make plans on where they’ll go after they secure a way for Charles, Angel, Hank, Darwin, and Kevin to get back to Corellia, which Charles and Erik have agreed it’s better for Charles not to know so he can answer any questions from the IF honestly.

“You two are still pretty close,” Hank says without preamble when Charles walks through the door. His tone is carefully neutral and he doesn’t turn around from where he’s gently directing Kevin to sip some water.

Charles sinks down into the chair in the corner. “You don’t have to worry, Hank. Erik isn’t going to stop me from going home to Corellia.”

“You do everything together,” Hank points out, “it’s almost textbook codependency. What are you going to do when he’s suddenly not there?”

“We don’t shower together,” Charles attempts to joke feebly, and even then it’s only a half-truth at best. They shower at the same time, but they use separate stalls. “We’ve talked, Hank. We know that right now, we both don’t want to be apart while we’re still on the same ship. But we also know that separation is inevitable. I want the space. I want the time.”

Hank glances over his shoulder at him, eyebrows raised. “Do you.”

“Erik is the only reason I survived this without becoming like him,” Charles says quietly, nodding to Kevin. “He’s important to me, Hank. I’m going to miss him terribly. But I can survive without him too.” It’s easier to say the words rather than believe them just yet, but Charles knows intellectually that with time, he’ll prove them true. He needs to find his footing in the real world again, and remember how to function without constant fear, and Erik needs that time for himself too. He spent far longer under Shaw’s reign than Charles did. They can sort themselves out, and then maybe one day they can see if they still fit together.

Charles knows that they will.

“Okay,” Hank says, sounding somewhat mollified, “as long as you’re aware.”

“I’m a telepath, Hank,” Charles says with a small laugh, “I’m more self-aware than anyone you’ll ever meet.”

“Point taken,” Hank concedes, and he doesn’t bring up the subject again.

They’re in the galley picking at the remains of their lunch a couple days later when Logan clomps down the stairs to announce that the ship is only a couple days away from entering the first Inner Zone. “Wade isn’t sure how far into the IZs he’s willing to go since half of us are wanted criminals, himself included, so we’re going to have to start thinking about how we’re going to get you the rest of the way to Corellia.”

“Wait a moment, does he still have the pirate’s attack cruiser Erik and I stole down in the hold?” Charles asks, a sudden thought occurring to him. He hopes Wade hadn’t dumped the ship sometime during the first week or so of their freedom. It holds the key to giving the IF a way to track down the Serenity, if Shaw and Essex haven’t discovered the homing device Charles had plastered to the Serenity’s hull.

“Should still be down there,” Logan answers with a shrug, “Wade loves collecting pieces of shit.”

“If it’s still flyable, we can take that back to Corellia, if Wade’s willing to get us close enough to at least make it there,” Charles says. “I already know that I can pilot it.”

“You show up in that thing and the IF’ll shoot you outta the sky, Chuck.”

“It does scream _pirate_ ,” Erik agrees, brow furrowed.

“Not if I broadcast an SOS and openly surrender on all channels,” Charles says dryly. “They’ll at least open a transmission to see who I am and what I want. All it’ll take is one look at me, and I know the proper confirmation codes. They won’t shoot us down.”

“It’ll save us a trip trying to find someone who owes Wade enough to lend you a ship,” Logan says with a nod, “I’ll run it past him to see what he thinks. And I’ll ask Alex and Darwin go take a look at the cruiser when they can spare a moment from sticking their tongues down each other’s throats.”

Angel grins, relief and excitement radiating off her in waves. “Less than two weeks and we’ll be home.”

Charles smiles, too, even as he squeezes Erik’s hand under the table. “First thing you’ll do when you get back?”

“Eat some good, hot Corellian soup. Then sleep in my own bed for a week. You?”

Charles doesn’t even have to think. “Go see my sister. See her kid.” He huffs a laugh. “Yell at my C.O. for assigning me this mission.”

Moira will be more than apologetic, he knows it. She might even give him a couple of days off before pulling him in for the endless debriefs, after-action reports, official interview after official interview, and the no doubt mandatory psychological assessment. He’s going to need a shit ton of therapy after this, no question about it. IF Command would never let him get away without at least a few weeks of sessions with one of their psychiatrists. But the idea of spilling his guts to a stranger, the idea of having to actually _explain_ what happened on that ship to someone who hadn’t been there—it’s a daunting prospect. He’d never know where to start.

After lunch, Charles lingers at the table as the rest of the group disperses to attend to various tasks around the ship. Wade doesn’t really need the extra hands—how he regularly runs this ship on his own, Charles will never know—but everyone likes to be useful. It’s the least they can do for the man who literally flew them out of hell. As usual, Erik follows his lead, remaining seated as the room empties.

When everyone’s gone, Charles asks, “What are you going to do after…well, after?”

Erik scratches at his ginger stubble. It’s coming in thicker now, nearly enough to be called a beard. Charles actually likes it quite a bit, likes the way it rasps across his skin. He wishes he had more time to enjoy it.

“I don’t know,” Erik says after a long pause. “Logan and Anna Marie have a destination in mind. I’ll probably tag along. Figure out what to do from there.”

Charles slowly turns the mug between his hands. “When I go back, I’m going to look into Omicron.”

Erik shoots him a startled look. “Charles—”

“There has to be some evidence to acquit you,” Charles continues determinedly. “The only reason you can’t come back with me is because you’ve probably got a bounty on your head the size of Old Earth. But if I find something to take that bounty off—”

“Charles,” Erik says again, and this time it’s said with immense fondness but also gentle rebuff. “Remember how you said you needed space?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I need it, too. I haven’t seen anything but the inside of a prison cell and then the inside of a prison ship for almost seven years. I need to…look around.” Erik shrugs. “See what’s out there.”

“I understand.” And Charles does: the lure of the stars is something that grips almost everyone at some time in their lives. Truly nothing compares to the feel of flying free through the black awesomeness of space.

“I love you,” Erik says. He says it so often now, like he’ll never be tired of reminding Charles at every opportunity. “But…”

“I know.” Charles reaches under the table to squeeze his hand again. “It’s okay.”

Erik tips sideways against him, knocking their heads together gently. Charles has taught him a few basic forms of thought projection and Erik’s mind reaches for his own, blurring the edges between them so they can truly bask in each other’s presence for a few minutes. “Look at how mature we’re being about this,” Erik murmurs, eyes closed. “How is it possible to want two different things equally.”

“No reason not to be,” Charles answers softly, leaning into him. They have that luxury now, of deciding how and when to come together on their own terms without Shaw looming over them as a threat. “And I know.” _You’ll come back, won’t you?_

“Yes,” Erik says aloud, “if you’ll still have me.” _I want to come back to you one day. To know that you’re alright. But if by then...you don’t have to still want me._ Through their linked minds, Charles can feel that it kills Erik to admit this, even though he believes in it. _When I said I’d let you go, I meant it. You have no obligation to me._

“That’s for me to decide,” Charles says, “not you or anyone else.”

Erik gives a small laugh, his mind caressing Charles’ with warm fondness. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I love you,” Charles says, because that feels like the only right thing for him to say, like he’ll never feel anything for Erik except for the love for him that rests in his heart and echoes between both of their minds. But as much as he wants to, Charles can’t speak for himself as to how he’ll feel in the future, after the passage of time and separation has cleared both their heads, but for right now this is enough.

“It is,” Erik agrees quietly, because linked as they are he knows what Charles is thinking. They turn their heads just enough to kiss, slow and sweet. _It’s enough._

 

*

 

Their last few days on Wade’s ship blur together after that. Charles and Erik stand up on the bridge to watch the sensors indicate that they’ve officially left the Outer Zones behind and passed into the Inner Zones. Darwin and Alex report that the pirates’ cruiser is fit to pilot the next afternoon, and Wade agrees to fly them deep enough into the IZs so Corellia will only be a two-day journey away once they set out in it. The remaining days drain away and just like that, it’s their last night on Wade’s ship.

Charles has been wishing desperately to return home for months, and now that the time has finally come to make the last, short leg of the journey, it feels so sudden. There’s still no doubt in his mind that he wants to go home—he can practically feel Raven embraced in his arms again, imagine the familiar brush of her blue scales against him—but as he and Erik settle in bed together one last time, Charles is still filled with quiet melancholy.

What is he going to do without Erik? How is he going to sleep at night? Focusing on Erik and immersing himself in Erik’s presence has kept Charles from thinking about the things he’d gone through on the Serenity, and he knows that it’s all going to come crashing back as soon as he curls up in bed alone again. He’s going to be grilled in debriefs for hours, possibly even days upon their return, and that’s only going to dredge up even worse memories and help him remember things even clearer. He’s coping right now, like he’s floating on a very small raft on top of a very wide, deep ocean, but the waves are getting rougher and he can sense that his raft is about to start springing leaks.

Charles doesn’t want to drown.

“You have the strongest mental fortitude of anyone I’ve ever met,” Erik murmurs to him quietly as they tangle themselves together beneath the sheets, “and the nightmare’s finally over. You’ll move past this. You’ll heal.”

“One day,” Charles says quietly, tucking himself against Erik’s front. He’s tired but he doesn’t want to sleep, not when these are the last few hours he has left with Erik.

Erik seems to be of like mind, shifting until he slides down the bed a little to bring them eye-level with each other and leaning forward to kiss Charles, soft and chaste to start. They’re both fully clothed like they’ve been every night of sharing a bed on Wade’s ship, and tonight Erik’s hands slide slowly up Charles’ back beneath his shirt, his fingers cool against Charles’ warm skin and making him shiver. Charles slips his own hands up the front of Erik’s shirt, tracing along his scarred skin and muscles that he knows so well and coming to a stop right over his heart, beating strong and steady.

Erik shivers too, pulling Charles a little closer and sliding a leg up over both of Charles’. “So after they’re done cross-examining you about the Serenity,” he asks, in between soft, light kisses that nevertheless still leave Charles breathless, “then what?”

“I haven’t thought much about it,” Charles admits. Any thoughts about returning home have always centered around seeing his sister and her baby. “Command will probably ground me for awhile, and even if they didn’t, I’d take a leave of absence anyway.”

“Plan on eventually returning?”

“I love space,” Charles answers softly, “I love being a pilot. I love the stars. But I don’t know.” He used to prefer the seemingly limitless freedom of sailing through the cosmos on the bridge of a ship, but now he longs for the feel of grass, the heat of the sun on his face. He wants to breathe in fresh air, not the dry, recycled oxygen of deep space transporters, and he wants to feel a breeze ruffle his clothes and hair. He wants the wide, open space of a planet, not the boxed containment of a ship, no matter how large.

Space used to mean freedom. Now it only conjures up the sensation of feeling trapped, of helpless terror. Charles hates that Shaw’s ruined the one thing he used to love the most but there’s no denying it. Several times during the first few days on Wade’s ship, when Erik was still trying to avoid him and give him room, Charles had found himself getting nervous to the point of true anxiety whenever he’d had to walk the ship alone, like some part of him still believed that an inmate was waiting around every corner or behind every door, ready to jump him. No one wants to fly under a jumpy, paranoid pilot.

Shaw had never gotten his cock inside Charles, but he’s left a lot more lasting damage than Charles had even realized. His fists clench in frustration against Erik’s skin, his chest tight with bitter anger. He doesn’t want to be some kind of broken, damaged thing, forever defined by the scars his mission on the Serenity has left behind, both physical and mental.

“One day at a time, Charles,” Erik breathes out, listening to the emotions running between them and rubbing slow circles into Charles’ back, “you aren’t going to be better right away.”

“Maybe I want to be,” Charles answers, knowing that it makes him sound childish and naïve. He sighs, some of the tightness in his chest fading. “I can always take up a teaching position at the Academy. Moira’s always halfheartedly trying to talk me into it since it’d mean I would be on-planet a lot more. I think she just wants to be able to dump all of her dating woes on me. God, Moira.” He laughs, short and rueful. “Good thing her current boyfriend moves so slowly on the relationship front or right now I’d be worried that I’ve missed her wedding, too.”

“Maybe you’ll have to start planning one for her,” Erik suggests, light and teasing, though there’s also a small bittersweet aftertaste to his thoughts that he gently pushes Charles away from when Charles tries to take a closer look. “That will keep you busy.”

“She won’t want my input on that,” Charles says with another small laugh. He leans forward to kiss Erik briefly to reassure him he’s not offended by his gentle rebuff. “She thinks my taste in colors is horrendous. I’ll just devote myself to being the world’s best babysitter.”

“Uncle Charles,” Erik muses, sounding amused by the idea. “You still don’t even know if you have a niece or nephew.”

“Not a clue.”

“Bet you ten credits it’s a girl.”

“I’m not betting on the gender of my sister’s baby,” Charles snorts, laughing again when he makes out Erik’s sharp grin through the dark. He moves forward to taste it, sealing their lips together for a few minutes of warm, wet sounds beneath the covers. Erik radiates contentment, hands smoothing continuously over every inch of Charles’ skin that he can reach while Charles’ own hands slide up over Erik’s collarbone and shoulders to wrap his arms around Erik’s neck, rucking up his shirt almost ridiculously high.

When Erik laughs, it vibrates through Charles physically as well as mentally, bright sparks carrying warmth and fondness dancing along their telepathic link. “Here, let me—” He lets go of Charles only long enough to shrug his shirt off entirely, shoving it up somewhere towards the pillows, and then his hands are back on Charles at once. “That alright?”

“Me too,” Charles says, and allows Erik to gently tug his shirt off for him up over his head and send it the same way as Erik’s shirt. Now they press against each other skin-to-skin, though they’re both still wearing pants, Erik projecting steady but still carefully restrained pleasure at being able to hold Charles like this.

“Just this is fine, Charles,” he reassures him softly when he feels the small tinge of unease Charles is unable to fully quash, “we don’t have to do anything more.”

“I want to,” Charles says honestly. He wants Erik. He’s wanted Erik all month, wavering on the edge of temptation every night that they’ve crawled into bed together.

But each time he’s held back by the fact that he’s so _tired_ of sex, and he doesn’t know what will happen if they try to have it now, even while they’re safe here, millions of light years away where Shaw can’t reach them. One of his worst fears is trying to have sex with Erik and somehow flashing back to being on his back on the mattress with Kevin crushed down on top of him while Shaw ranges over them both, fucking into the ensign while choking the life out of Charles little by little. It’s the most prevalent nightmare he’s had so far, and Charles is afraid of it tainting anything he tries to do with Erik. The thought of that happening alone is enough to kill any desire Charles might feel, even if it leaves him frustrated with himself.

“I want you,” Charles whispers, lips brushing against the side of Erik’s throat, “but I need time.” He needs distance from those last few days on the Serenity, short compared to the rest of the months he’d spent on the Serenity yet more horrifying than everything else combined.

Erik doesn’t answer in words at first, merely projecting a calming sense of peace to Charles that smoothes over Charles’ chagrin. He wants Charles too, and isn’t afraid to show Charles that, but he also shows him how he truly isn’t bothered by having to refrain. “I don’t want it unless you do,” he says, “and I don’t want to have sex with you ever again where you’re even the slightest bit uncomfortable, Charles.”

_Don’t hurt him don’t hurt him don’t hurt him_ , had been Erik’s only thought during the very first time they’d fucked, and it’s Erik’s only thought right now in his open and unguarded mind for Charles to see, no hint of a lie or false sentiment. Charles leans up and their lips meet, slow and unhurried, full of undeniable hunger for each other but with no impatient desire to go any further, no needling pressure from Erik for Charles to give him anything more.

They make out beneath the covers like teenagers who have just discovered the novelty of kissing, and it’s still thrilling even though Charles knows it probably shouldn’t be. He wraps himself up in Erik, mind and body, and forgets about everything else for one last night as the ship flies on, especially the knowledge that this too is coming to an end.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left, guys! It's been a wild ride with you!

In the morning they skip breakfast together to have that handful of minutes longer with just each other but eventually even Erik acknowledges that it’s time for them to go. It’s strange for Charles to only pull his shirt back on and slide his feet into his boots and be ready to go—he has no belongings to pack up and it seems pointless to bring a change of clothes that aren’t actually his anyway when he’ll be home so soon.

“Almost there,” Logan says as they troop onto the bridge.

The label IZ-12 flashes on the corner of the navigation screen. Wade is at the controls, directing the joystick with his feet. This morning he’s wearing half of an empty watermelon on his head, some juice still dripping from its husk. Charles wisely decides not to ask.

“Hank and Angel and Darwin?” he says instead.

Anna Marie, who’s perched in the co-pilot’s chair, says, “They’re coming. Your pirate ship is fuelled and ready to go as soon as we find a safe place to open the hatch for you.”

“You’re sure you can keep the IF from blowing you out of the sky?” Erik murmurs, his hand on the small of Charles’ back. On the Serenity, Charles would never have guessed how much Erik actually enjoys— _craves_ , even—physical contact. Now Erik seems to be soaking up every moment they have left, always touching him in one way or another, always staying in contact.

“I’m sure,” Charles confirms. The IF routinely switches out passcodes and protocols every six months, but they’ll still acknowledge old protocols if they’re presented correctly. And they’ll be desperate to hear about the Serenity, no doubt, so the last thing they’ll want is any supposed survivors being blown to pieces.

A few minutes later, Angel arrives, a small bag of supplies slung over her shoulder. Hank is right behind her, his own medical bag in hand. Both of them look worlds better; the handful of weeks they’ve had to recuperate on Wade’s ship have done wonders. Hank’s fur is carefully groomed and his clothes are clean and pressed. Angel has cut her hair into a new, shorter style, and her cheekbones aren’t quite so prominent anymore, nor her arms so obviously thin.

Charles himself has put on weight, and he’s heard Erik silently reflecting on it more than once. He’s felt the way Erik’s hands trace over his belly and his sides, as if glorying in all the added fullness. He’s noticed how pleased Erik is when he can no longer easily count every one of Charles’ ribs.

Erik’s grown less gaunt in their time here, too, but he’s still lean as a rail, just less bony. It makes it more comfortable to nestle with him in bed, and Charles wishes he had longer to find out just how full Erik’s figure could get. It seems like that’s all he’s done in the month they’ve been on this ship: wish for more time.

“How much longer?” Hank asks. “I’ve already gotten Kevin settled on the pirate cruiser but I don’t want him to wait alone for too long.”

“Twenty minutes,” Wade says. “Unless the watermelon dries out. Then I’d say closer to sixty.”

Twenty minutes and he and Erik will have to say goodbye. Charles reaches out to take Erik’s hand and squeezes it hard.

Eventually Titus IX comes into view, a tiny, barren planet with no settlers, no vegetation, and no life to be found. It’s in the shadow of this planet that Wade decides to fall into orbit, relying on the planet’s mass to cloak their ship against any roving sensors.

“To the seas!” Wade cries once they’re cruising along at a constant speed, springing out of his seat so violently the watermelon helmet slips and smashes against the ground. He barely seems to notice it as he barrel rolls out the bridge doors and down the hall, clearly expecting all of them to follow.

“You’re lucky you’re getting off this ship now,” Erik mutters. “I’m going to be stuck with that lunatic for god only knows how long.”

It’s a relatively weak attempt at humor but both of them smile anyway. They don’t let go of each other as they head down to the hold with the others, or as Wade hops into the pirate ship and starts firing up the systems. Now that the time has finally come to go home, every second rushing past is agony. Erik is clinging so tightly to his hand that Charles can feel the tips of his fingers going numb. And yet, all he wants is for Erik to hold on tighter.

“Be safe,” Erik says softly, turning him so that they’re face-to-face. Everyone else could have been sucked out an airlock for all Charles knows; all his attention narrows down to Erik’s face, Erik’s hands, Erik’s fiercely beautiful mind, _Erik Erik Erik._ He wants to remember everything about him, from the faintest scar above his lip to the deepest, most elusive parts of his mind. He wants to press Erik into his memory and hold him there forever.

“You too,” he answers, squeezing Erik’s wrist. “Like I said, I’ll look into Omicron. I’ll find a way to exonerate you, Erik. And when that happens…”

“I’ll find you,” Erik promises. “You don’t have to wait for me but—”

Charles drags him down into a kiss and doesn’t let go until they’re both breathless and dizzy with it, until he’s sure he’s memorized every detail about the way Erik tastes. “Don’t be stupid. I’ll wait for you. Just don’t take too long, alright? I’m impatient at heart.”

Erik smiles. “Alright.”   

The door to the hold opens to admit Darwin and Alex, the last two stragglers of their party. “There you are,” Hank says. “Come on, we’re heading out.”

Darwin gives him a sheepish smile. “Actually…”

His mind, Charles realizes, is nothing but calm and determined. There’s no grief there, no sadness at parting, no bittersweet sorrow. In an instant, he knows what Darwin’s decided.

“I’m staying,” Darwin says.

Hank stares at him. “Staying? What, on this ship?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, I’m staying with Alex.” Darwin slings an arm around Alex’s shoulders to bring him closer, and Alex shoots him a fond smirk. “Wherever he’s going.”

“You can’t—” Hank splutters. “He’s a _criminal_. You’ll be called a traitor—you’ll never be able to come back!”

“No one has to know what happened to me,” Darwin says. “For all they know, I died on the Serenity. You can tell IF Command that.”

“Are you sure about this?” Charles asks, brow furrowed.

“I’ve spent weeks thinking about it. You and Angel and Hank—you’ve got lives on Corellia. Families to get back to, friends, all that. But I don’t have anyone who’d cry too much if I was gone. There’s no reason for me to go back.”

For a single, ferocious moment, Charles is jealous of him, jealous of his lack of connections and his willingness to cut ties. _I’m staying, too,_ he could say. _Give Raven my best, tell everyone I died._ It would be so easy to stay with Erik. To keep Erik’s hand in his forever. He was willing to stay and die with Erik back on the Serenity, and now that the stakes aren’t nearly as high, it would be simple.

For a handful of seconds, he lets the idea turn over and over in his head. When he glances over, Erik is looking back at him, a tangle of emotions in his eyes. _Stay,_ his mind says. _See? He’s doing it, you can, too, stay with me, Charles, stay with me stay stay._ But at the same time, they both know Charles would regret it.

Erik raises Charles’ hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. Then he lets go.  

“Okay,” Charles says, a lump in his throat. “We should go then.”

Everyone starts to hug. Anna Marie squeezes Charles until he wheezes, while Logan pats him on the back. Angel and Darwin exchange some words. Erik and Alex speak briefly to the side, probably working out some arrangements for when Charles and the others are gone.

“I’ll miss you, man,” Darwin says when they come to each other. “We couldn’t have gotten out of there alive without you.”

Charles embraces him tightly. “Stay safe. Is there anyone you want me to talk to when I get back? Friends?”

Darwin shakes his head. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”

They part so Hank can say goodbye to Darwin as well. “Yo, Charlie boy,” Wade says, cutting in between them. “You can’t leave until I teach you the handshake.”

Charles gives him a quizzical look. “What handshake?”

Wade grabs Charles’ face between his hands, his expression suddenly intense. “Focus. Look straight at me, right in my eyes. Yep just like that. No, don’t touch. Put your hands down. _Put them by your side, Chuckie._ Good. Now pretend you’re a crouton.”

“A what?”

“A crouton.” Wade leans in close, his eyes narrowed. Charles stares right back at him. Then, quick as lightning, Wade licks Charles’ nose and twirls away. “All done!”

Charles will never, ever understand that man. But he can’t deny that he’s a little fond of him as well, and that he’ll even miss him a little.

There’s only Erik left. Charles turns back to him one last time as Hank and Angel head up the gangway into the cruiser. Erik digs into a pocket and takes Charles’ hand, pressing something small and solid into his palm. When Charles uncurls his fingers, he finds a queen chess piece delicately crafted out of shining metal in his hand.

“Something to hold onto,” Erik says, adding quietly between just the two of them, _And maybe one day I’ll make you a whole set._

“I’m holding you to that,” Charles answers, his voice a little shaky, and they exchange a much-too-brief last kiss before he turns and walks on wobbly legs up the gangway after Angel and Hank.

He still retains contact with Erik’s mind and through it he hears Logan say to Erik, “You’re gonna break that kid’s goddamn heart.”

“No,” he hears Erik respond, his mind forming the words just barely before his mouth speaks them aloud with quiet conviction, “I’m going to do right by him. One day.”

Charles has to pull back somewhat then, shrinking their contact down to bare minimum in order to keep Erik from being swamped with his own swell of desperate love. He steps into the cruiser and the hatch slides closed behind him, pressurized locks hissing as they seal themselves shut.

Angel’s waiting for him on the tiny bridge, serving as his copilot since Darwin isn’t coming and Hank’s duty is with Kevin, and making sure the ensign doesn’t panic now that he’s no longer with Anna Marie. Wade’s got all the systems up and running, so all Charles has to do is wait for the all-clear to launch, watching through the front window as Erik, Logan, Anna Marie, Alex, and Darwin all retreat from the hold so Wade can open the bay doors to empty space.

“Hey,” Angel says gently when Charles swallows audibly as the hold door shuts and blocks his last view of Erik, “let’s go home.”

“Yes,” Charles agrees, pressing a hand to the outside of his pocket where the metal chess piece sits, “it’s about time.”

“Red light!” Wade shouts over the audio channel they have open.

“Ready when you are, Wade,” Charles responds even as he scrolls through the diagnostics screen one last time. It’s more out of habit than actual necessity, since Darwin and Alex ran every scan imaginable on the ship yesterday, but Charles likes knowing for himself too that everything checks out.

“All systems go over here,” Angel reports, and then laughs. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

Charles cracks a smile. Her good mood is infectious, and despite the sorrow that hangs low in the pit of his stomach, the rest of him is buoyed upwards with excitement: at long last, they’re going home. It’s finally a reality.

“Green light!” Wade yells, and behind them the bay doors begin to open with a loud groan.

Charles powers up the ship’s smaller side thrusters, directing Angel on how to keep their outputs steady in order to keep them from knocking into the walls as he takes control of the main thrusters, reversing them to back their smaller craft out of the belly of Wade’s ship. Once they’re past the doorway Angel cuts the power to the side thrusters and Charles eases back on the main ones, letting the ship fall backwards to drift gently away from Wade’s ship.

“All clear, Wade,” Charles says, “thanks for the ride.”

“My sweet manta ray of truth and justice,” Wade answers solemnly, “always be kind to your web-footed friends.” The transmission cuts out.

Charles pulls up the star chart and swiftly plots a course for Corellia. It takes only a second; it’s a straight shot home, no more obstacles save for distance in their way. He rotates the main thrusters around so they point backwards again, the whole ship humming with their pent-up power. She may not be the prettiest ship to have ever flown in space, but she’ll do her job well enough.

One last time, Charles reaches back to Wade’s ship to find Erik. Their two ships are already miles apart and he strains with the distance, unused to having to stretch his telepathy so far after months of having it locked away, but he brushes against Erik’s sharp, bright mind one last time and feels him light up in recognition.

“Angel,” Charles says aloud, even as he presses _I love you, I love you_ into Erik’s head with the sensation of a kiss, “punch it.”

“You got it, daddy-o,” Angel says with delight, and pushes the throttle all the way forward.

The cruiser’s engines flare up and the ship takes off, streaking away from Titus IX on her course to Corellia, and Charles clings onto Erik’s mind for as long as he can before the distance tears them apart at last, opening like a chasm between them. Then there is nothing but silence in Charles’ head, and even with Hank, Angel, and Kevin’s thoughts close by he feels alone, desolate as a far-off star.

Even so, Charles can still feel the phantom press of Erik’s lips against his own.

 

*

 

Hank joins him on the bridge later during the night cycle, long after Charles has told Angel to go ahead and get some sleep, that he could handle keeping watch on his own. Angel had been grateful to go, the long day of flying quiet and uneventful as Charles kept the cruiser out of the main traffic flow of ships, not wanting to cause any kind of alarm in their ship that is clearly of pirate origins until they absolutely have to.

He’s curled in his chair when the door to the bridge slides open, and Charles can’t help the way he instinctively tenses, going very still where he sits and nerves jumping to high alert until Hank sinks down in the copilot’s chair. He feels foolish as he relaxes again, but he can’t quite ignore how fast his heart is beating.

“You don’t have to stay up here the entire time, you know,” Hank says neutrally, casual, even, as he leans back in the chair and props his feet up on the edge of the console. “It’s got to have some kind of autopilot that’ll keep us steady for a few hours if you want to go rest.”

“I’m not tired,” Charles lies. He’s exhausted. He thinks he might be able to sleep for a year once they’re safely back on Corellia, but at the same time he’s not entirely looking forward to falling asleep either. He knows what kind of dreams wait for him on the edges of his consciousness.

Facing them alone, without Erik’s arms around him, is too daunting to bear.

“Well, even if you wanted to get off the bridge for awhile,” Hank says, “you’re not locked up here like on the Serenity.”

“I know.” But it _is_ strange to think that he can get up and go wherever he wants, that he doesn’t have to stay exactly where he is until someone tells him otherwise. He’d been free to move around on Wade’s ship too, but he supposes he didn’t notice the difference as much since Erik had always been with him anyway, like on the Serenity. Charles doesn’t want to examine it too closely right now. “How’s Kevin?”

“Calm,” Hank says, “which is good. I think he’s accepted that none of us are going to hurt him. I can’t wait to get him into a hospital, though, for some real healing.”

“Yes,” Charles agrees, genuinely relieved. With time, the ensign can be okay, and if he can, so can Charles too. Maybe he can experience another shift of gravity and his world can recenter itself again, back to where it started.

Maybe he doesn’t want it to.

“I’m still surprised that Armando stayed,” Hank says after a couple minutes of silence.

“I’m not,” Charles says, but there’s no bite in his voice. “It’s not like they’ll have to live like wandering refugees forever. There are plenty of planets still within the Core Zones where they can settle and start a life.”

“True,” Hank admits. He’s silent again for a few moments, and Charles doesn’t have to read Hank’s thoughts to know the question he’s working himself up to asking. “So why didn’t you? I mean, you could’ve gone with Erik. There are ways to get in contact with your sister that have nothing to do with the IF, so she’d know you were alive.”

Charles smiles wryly at how the question bursts out of the doctor at last, though it drops off his face quickly. He’s inches away from gently telling Hank that it’s really none of his business, but then he relents. He’d been too afraid to admit it even to Erik during the past month and unwilling to think much about it on his own, but he might as well say it now.

“Aside from wanting to physically see my sister again,” he says slowly, “I guess I wanted to be sure.”

“Sure that you could walk away from Erik if you had the chance?” Hank guesses.

“Sort of,” Charles answers. It feels like it should be more complex than that, but it’s the bare bones of the truth. “I love him. But I need to know that it’s real.” He squeezes the chess piece in his hand, that he’d taken out of his pocket after Angel left the bridge and has been holding ever since. “It feels like it is.”

“Charles,” Hank says kindly, “I know I’ve kind of given you a hard time about it, but it’s not my place to tell you either way. But if that’s how you feel, then it must be true. A little more absence will only make the heart grow fonder.”

“Yes,” Charles agrees. He’ll see Erik again. They’ll both be better, alive and healed and free. Then they can just _be_. “It must.”

 

*

 

He isn’t aware of exactly the full extent of what kind of toll the last few months have taken on him until they’re taken onto the IF patrol ship that intercepts them early in the next day cycle and he’s whisked straight to the medbay after an exhausting twenty minutes of confirming his identity. From there, everything becomes a blur of tricorders, nurses trying to take his vitals, doctors badgering him with questions, multiple hyposprays stinging his arm, and a biobed that sends him straight into unconsciousness the instant he’s pushed down into it.

When he wakes up, Admiral Fletcher is on a comm call for him, and he’s allowed to sit up in bed to take it. He spends half an hour sketching out the general outline of what happened with the Serenity before his attending physicians tell him—and the admiral—that he needs rest. Then he’s sent straight off to sleep again in the biobed and wakes up hours later to the same set of nurses clucking over him as if he’s inches from death.

The trip to Corellia is only a day long, and before the reality of it can truly sink in, he’s home. A retinue of military officers and doctors await them as they disembark, and Charles hardly gets a moment to breathe fresh, non-recycled air before he’s taken straight to the hospital directly adjacent to Amiari Space Bay. Evidently he hasn’t put on as much weight as he’d thought over the last month on Wade’s ship; the doctors at the hospital hook him up directly to supplements and inject him with a dizzying array of hyposprays before finally allowing the impatient IF officers to speak with him.

Moira is the first one through the door to his private room, her face drawn and pale as she comes in. “Oh Charles,” she says as she stops by the foot of his bed. She sounds wrecked. “I’m so sorry.”

She lingers where she is, clearly unsure of her welcome. When he opens his arms wordlessly, relief washes over her and she leans down to hug him tightly, her grip around him almost painful.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” she whispers. “When I heard the Serenity had gone missing…Everyone thought you were dead, you’d been gone so long. I was sure I’d sent you to your death.”

“I’m okay,” he says, even though he still feels like anything but. “I’m just glad to be home.”

When she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes. Sitting down on the edge of his bed beside him, she hangs onto his arm and asks, “How are you feeling? The doctors were talking to us out there, and they said you looked rundown, but it wasn’t anything some time in the hospital wouldn’t fix.”

How is he feeling? There aren’t any words for the unnamable storm of emotion crackling in his chest. He’s unbelievably exhausted. He’s so glad to be home and truly safe at last. He’s excited to see Raven and Irene and nervous for the debriefings to come in the oncoming days and weeks. He still sees Shaw’s face when he closes his eyes sometimes. He can still feel Erik’s last kiss burning on his lips.

A hospital can’t fix him. He’s not sure what will.

“I’m okay,” he says anyway. It’s better than admitting otherwise.

“There are some officers here to speak to you,” Moira says. “I’m sure you expected that. But I convinced them to hold off for a few minutes.”

Charles manages a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Moira’s answering smile is brighter. “I figured you might want to see your nephew.”

“My…” Charles’ heart jumps into his throat. “Are they…”

“Let me go grab them, I’ll be right back,” Moira promises, sliding off the bed to her feet and disappearing out the door into the hallway again. Charles has a few extra moments to sit where he is and breathe, trying to gather himself together.

Then the door hisses open again, and Charles can feel his eyes immediately start to sting as his sister rushes through, practically throwing herself into his arms. “I was going to kill you if you didn’t come home,” she whispers fiercely, squeezing him so tightly he can barely get in a breath. “I was going to fly after you myself to haul your stupid ass home and you know how much I hate space.”

“I know,” he chokes out, trying to swallow through the lump in his throat. “I missed you, too. I missed you so much.”

She doesn’t even bother trying to hide her tears, which is testament enough to how she’s feeling because normally Raven hates crying in front of other people. He strokes her hair and breathes her in, pressing his face to the ridged blue scales of her shoulder and hoping she can’t feel how badly he’s shaking.

After a long few minutes, a soft, unmistakable baby’s gurgle pulls them apart. When Charles manages to blink the tears out of his eyes, he sees Irene standing by the end of the bed, a smiling, blue-skinned little boy squirming in her arms. He’s dressed in a blinding yellow onesie that has Old Earth whales swimming across its chest, and he’s absolutely the most beautiful thing Charles has ever laid eyes on.

“Is this…?” he asks faintly.

“His name is Kurt,” Raven says, standing up so she can retrieve her son from Irene’s arms. “He’s a mutant through and through.”

“I can see that,” Charles says, staring in abject fascination at Kurt’s pointed ears and thin, whip-like blue tail, which lashes back and forth lazily like a cat’s. “Can I…can I hold him?”

Raven beams at him. “Of course.”

Charles has only held babies once or twice in his life, and both times, he was so terrified of dropping them that he didn’t enjoy the experience at all. But he has the need to hold Kurt, to feel him in his arms and look down into his face and know he’s _real_. Kurt whines a little when his mother lets him go, but he settles easily enough into Charles’ arms and when one of his chubby hands reaches up to touch Charles’ face, that’s the end of Charles’ already brittle composure.

“You’re going to make him cry if you cry,” Raven says, but her voice trembles. Charles would be embarrassed under any other circumstances, but he thinks that after what he’s been through, he’s allowed to hold the nephew he thought he’d never get to see and make a crying mess of himself.

When Kurt starts making distressed noises, Charles hands him back to Raven, who discreetly wipes away a few tears on her sleeve before she takes him back. As she fusses over Kurt to get him to smile again, Charles scrubs his hands over his face and tries to slow the hiccupping of his breath. It takes a couple of minutes, but he eventually gets the tears under control and by the time his vision is clear again Irene has stepped up to the side of the bed to take his hand.

“Welcome home, Charles,” she says warmly, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. “I was never able to see what had become of you until yesterday.”

Yesterday, when he finally solidified his choice to return home by walking onto the pirate cruiser and leaving Erik behind, Charles realizes. “I’m glad to be home,” he tells her, squeezing her hand gently. “I hope Raven wasn’t impatient with you.”

“She wouldn’t be Raven if she wasn’t impatient,” Irene says with a laugh. Raven glances over at them and makes a face. “She took most of her ire out on Moira, I’m afraid.”

“I had every right to be angry with her and you know it, Charles,” Raven says flatly when Charles opens his mouth. A quick glance around tells him that Moira hasn’t stepped back into the room to give them privacy anyway. “She knew I was due to have Kurt, she never should’ve assigned you on that mission in the first place.”

Charles might stay out of Raven’s head with his telepathy to honor an old childhood pact between them, but he knows the stubborn set of her mouth when he sees it. “Come here, Raven,” he says, too weary to argue about it now.

Raven comes, settling on the edge of the bed next to him and leaning into his side so he can wrap an arm around her shoulders, Kurt tucked safely between them. “Don’t ever do this to me again,” she says at length, her voice soft as she jiggles her baby gently.

Rather than answer her—she knows just as well as Charles does that what had happened on the Serenity had been beyond his control—Charles settles for waving a finger of his other hand in front of Kurt for him to reach for and latch onto. “He’s truly stunning, Raven.”

“Watch it, he’s already got sharp teeth,” Raven says, laughing when Charles winces. She helps Charles pry his finger carefully out of Kurt’s mouth. “And of course he is. He got all his good looks from his mother.”

“Then I hope he inherited his temper from his other mother,” Charles says, looking up to catch Irene’s grin before Raven elbows him. “I just…” He trails off for a moment, watching Kurt squirm happily in Raven’s arms. “Getting home to you three was all that mattered, back on that ship.”

“Well now you’re home,” Raven says in the brisk voice she uses when she’s trying to cover up deeper emotion. She kisses the side of Charles’ head, even as she stops Kurt’s tail from wrapping around his wrist.

“Charles?” Moira sticks her head in the door, her face apologetic. “The officers really would like to speak with you, if you’re ready.”

Charles nods. “I’m good,” he assures her, mustering up a lackluster smile.

“We won’t go far,” Raven promises, sliding off the edge of the bed to her feet again and adjusting her grip on Kurt while Irene retrieves the baby bag Raven must’ve tossed aside on her way in. “I’ve got to nurse Kurt for a bit anyway, but we’ll stick around till you’re done.”

“He’s going to want dinner by that time,” Irene says with a smile, shouldering the bag and taking Raven’s free hand.

“We’ll bring you dinner, then,” Raven decides. “Irene will figure out what you want. See you later, Charles.”

“Alright,” Charles says, not entirely sure that he wants to see them go yet even though he knows they’re not going to be allowed in the room anyway during his debriefing, “see you later.” He resists the urge to tell Raven that he loves her, knowing that it’ll only make her scoff. They’re close, as far as siblings go, but because of the house they’d grown up in they’ve never been overly sentimental. He’s feeling sentimental now, though.

Judging by the look Raven gives him, she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “We’ll be out in the hallway somewhere,” she assures him, and then she and Irene slip out the door together with Kurt, gone from view.

Fortunately Charles doesn’t have long to dwell on how seeing his sister and his nephew at long last makes him feel, because Brigadier General Lucas Bishop enters his room and Charles’ newest concern is whether or not he should be leaping up to his feet.

“At ease,” Bishop advises him calmly before Charles can decide, “you don’t have to get up for the likes of me. Welcome back, Xavier.” He shakes Charles’ hand, his grip firm and assured.

“It’s good to be back, sir,” Charles tells him, sitting up a little straighter in bed despite himself. He’s met the general once or twice before, so he’s glad to see a somewhat familiar face on the officer who is evidently going to be handling his debriefing. Bishop is a mutant too, well-known for his energy absorption and redirection abilities.

Reminded of Shaw, Charles tries not to shiver.

“I want this to be as informal as possible,” Bishop says, dragging one of the chairs in the room over to the side of the bed and sinking down into it. “You look like you need just about as much rest as you can get, but Command wants their answers. They’ve already got a team assembled to hunt down the Serenity and recover her, thanks to that tracker you delivered to us. Congratulations, you’re a hero.” He grins.

“Thank you, sir.” Charles doesn’t feel like one. He just feels tired.

Bishop gives him a knowing look. Charles is respectfully keeping out of his thoughts save for the bare minimum that he usually defaults to, but he doesn’t need to look far to tell that Bishop understands how he feels. “Alright, they’re still finishing up with McCoy but here’s how it’s going to run. All they’re going to ask you are more in-depth questions about the events on the Serenity. You already gave Fletcher a basic outline, now we want the details. Everything will be on record, so be as candid as possible.”

“Sir…” Charles trails uncertainly.

“You’re not on trial here,” Bishop says, “and I think we can all agree that anything incriminating you may have had to do while on the Serenity was under duress.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Charles admits, still hesitant. “I’m willing to tell as much as I can remember,” he says slowly. He hates the twisting sense of shame in his gut, the way it makes him feel dirty and used. He should be able to give his superior officers a detailed account of what happened on the Serenity, but instead he’s ashamed just imagining what they’ll think of him after hearing what Shaw did to him during those last few days. “But some things are...painful to recall.”

Bishop’s eyes are kind, which almost makes it worse. “I’ll be fielding the questions, Xavier,” he says, “and if something gets too close, you let me know up here.” He taps his temple meaningfully. “We’re going to be sticking to the chain of events that allowed this mess to happen, so we shouldn’t be getting too personal, but just in case.”

“Thank you, sir,” Charles says, greatly relieved. “I appreciate it. More than I think I can say.”

“You’re all going to be assigned a round of sessions with a psychologist. Standard procedure, as you know. And since we’re not investigating you, that will remain private.”

There’s a commotion in the hall, loud voices filtering into the room seconds before the door opens to admit the rest of the senior officers that will be present during Charles’ debriefing. They file into the room, six in all, holding disposable coffee cups and making the room seem crowded as they take up various positions, either sitting or standing. Charles feels self-conscious where he sits in the bed wearing nothing but thin hospital garments while all seven officers look him over, imposing in their dress uniforms.

But Bishop gives him an encouraging smile, calm and relaxed in his chair. Maybe this isn’t going to be as formal as Charles thought so he breathes out, shoulders dropping. Compared to what he’s been through, this will be cake.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” Bishop says, “shall we begin?”

 

*

 

Charles stays in the hospital for seven days. At the end of it, he’s discharged with strict orders to monitor his own health and to call immediately if he feels ill. He’s handed a box full of vials of medicine he’s to take if he has trouble sleeping, trouble with pain, and trouble eating. After that, they sign him out and hand him over to Raven’s care.

On the drive home, she says nonchalantly, “If you don’t want to stay at your place—you know, alone—you can always come stay with us. Someone’s always home, and besides, Irene and I would love to have you.”

He snorts. “You’d love to have a babysitter, you mean.”

“Don’t go putting words in my mouth,” she says with a roll of her eyes, but she starts to smile as she says it and that’s good: she’s finally starting to loosen up around him. She’d come to see him every day at the hospital but she’d never stayed long, determined for him to get his rest. She always kept her voice soft and easy around him, like she’d been afraid of upsetting him if she spoke too loudly. And who knows—maybe that’s one of his triggers now, now that he’s got a whole arsenal of them. Loud sounds make him flinch; hands on his body make him tense. He can’t sleep if the room is dark. He can’t sleep if the door is open. Even the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor makes him nervous. He wouldn’t be surprised if yelling frightened him, too, on top of all of that.

But he’s tired of being treated like glass. He’s never been very good at allowing himself to be taken care of, and all he really wants is for everyone to pretend he just came home from a months-long vacation and everything is absolutely normal. It feels like that’s the only way he’s ever going to feel normal again.

That’s part of why he says, “Thanks, but I want to go home.” He’s not sure how he’ll handle actually being home, but he doesn’t want to spend time sitting around at Raven’s place just…thinking.

“If you’re sure,” she says, just slightly dubious.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. But the door’s always open, you know that.”

He smiles, or tries to. He doesn’t have much energy to sustain smiles when he’s not genuinely feeling them, and he hasn’t been genuinely feeling like smiling since the first time he held Kurt in his arms. Just a few more minutes, he thinks as he leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. A few more minutes he’ll be home and this trembling in his chest will either settle or burst open entirely, but either way, he’ll be alone. No one to witness him if he falls apart, which is how he’d prefer it.

He squeezes the tiny jump drive in his right palm. Bishop gave it to him right before Charles was released from the hospital. On it is all the information and data that IF Command has ever compiled on the Omicron Project, from previous court case files to medical charts belonging to all of the soldiers dosed with the super serum, showing the before and after effects. Charles had requested the files after his long string of debriefings had finally been over, when Bishop had pointedly mentioned the fact that Command probably owes Charles a few favors.

Bishop had raised his eyebrows at Charles’ choice to cash in on those favors in the form of being granted access to all the old Omicron files but hadn’t commented, promising to get someone on compiling them all by the end of the week. He’d delivered the drive himself in person, handing it over without ceremony.

“That’s heavy reading, Xavier,” he’d said after Charles thanked him. “There are a lot of people who would rather that project stay buried.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to work through it slowly,” is all Charles had replied neutrally. On top of a bonus even heftier than the one Moira had promised at the start of all this, he’s been granted an entire year of paid leave. Charles suspects it’s more because Command doesn’t want him to kick up a fuss and start slinging lawsuits at them than actual compassion for his physical and mental welfare.

Charles can’t speak for Angel, Hank, Kevin, or any of the other possible survivors once the Serenity is reclaimed, but he isn’t interested in suing anyone. He’s content with taking his bonus pay and leaving it at that, not that he’ll actually _tell_ Command this.

He’ll have the project of digging around in the Omicron files to keep him busy, he tries to tell himself as Raven fills the silence in the car with idle chatter about Kurt. He’ll get Erik acquitted or at least pardoned, and then he’ll have the whole rest of a year to figure out what to do with himself. Maybe it won’t take him the entire time, and he’ll want to return to active duty sooner. Maybe he’ll take a desk job instead of piloting. Maybe he’ll end up quitting the IF military altogether. He doesn’t know. It’s too much to think about right now.

His chest tightens again and Charles has to take a few deep breaths to calm the anxiety in his gut. If Raven notices, she doesn’t comment. Charles keeps his eyes squeezed shut, trying to convince his body that there’s no reason to panic anymore.

“—and we also filled your fridge,” Raven is saying when Charles finally relaxes enough to tune her in again, “so you don’t have to worry about making a trip to the store for a couple weeks. Everything’s fresh. We got all that healthy crap you like, but I snuck in some junk food too.”

“I’m undeserving of such a sister,” Charles says fondly, in lieu of the thanks he knows Raven won’t accept. He’s lucky Raven thinks of things like this, because he hadn’t even considered yet that all his cupboards would still be empty after being gone for six months, and he knows he’s not up for dining out or even ordering in, and having strangers knocking on his door.

“We’ve known that for years,” Raven scoffs, but there’s real affection in her tone as she continues, “and I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to—what in the _world_?”

Her sudden incredulousness has Charles on high alert, opening his eyes and sitting up, adrenaline already pumping through his veins. There’s a huge crowd outside the familiar entrance to his downtown apartment building, and as Raven drives the car closer Charles realizes that they’re all holding TV cameras and audio equipment. As soon as they see Raven’s car coming towards the building several flashes start to go off, snapping wild pictures of their approach.

“For god’s sake,” Raven says angrily, making a fist like she wants to lay on the horn, “don’t they know the meaning of privacy?”

“Obviously not,” Charles says faintly. There’d been no paparazzi or newscasters outside the hospital, since he’d been in an IF military hospital where they’re strictly prohibited and have guards posted to enforce the rule. From what little TV he’s been brave enough to watch—somehow missing six months’ worth of news and pop culture makes even turning on the holoscreen feel overwhelming—Charles knows that the IF had made a press release about the return of several crewmembers of the Serenity. At the end of his debriefings he’d been warned that every news outlet on the planet would be trying to get in contact with him since the Serenity has been both a political and military shitstorm ever since she first fell off the grid, and he’s technically under orders to not grant any full interviews that aren’t sanctioned by Command.

Charles doesn’t want to give any interviews or quotes about how happy he is to be home. Staring at the crowd of reporters vying to be at the front of the pack so they can be the first one to shove a microphone in his face, Charles doesn’t see reporters at all. All he can see like flashes before his eyes are inmates, jeering and stomping and shouting their awful chants, like he’s right back on the Serenity in the gym again.

“Charles,” Raven says as she guides the car to a stop at the curb. The crowd of reporters tries to press forward, only barely held back by a handful of annoyed-looking valets. “We can try to see if we can get in around back or we can just go back to my house.”

“I—” Charles swallows, his throat dry. He feels shellshocked, even his telepathy tightly wound into his head so he can’t feel anyone else’s thoughts at all. Luckily Raven’s windows are tinted darkly enough so they probably can’t see him sitting here frozen in place with actual fear. “I just want to go home.”

Raven mutters a harsh string of curses under her breath aimed at the crowd outside. “Okay,” she says, business-like as she unbuckles her seat belt, “I’m going to get out first. Wait for me to come around to your side to get you out, and we’ll run inside together. They can’t follow us into the lobby, okay?”

“Okay,” Charles repeats numbly. His vision keeps flickering, and he keeps seeing the inmates reaching for him instead of tiny blond reporters holding out microphones and voice recorders.

Somewhere distantly he hates himself for not being able to handle this, for not being able to open the door on his own and walk the ten steps it’ll take to get inside the stupid building that he’d insisted on living in, even though it’s a little pricey. He’d liked the location, he thinks dimly, trying to focus on something other than the reporters shouting questions at him, the words mixing in his head to sound like the inmates’ chants. Moira had come with him when he’d been apartment hunting a few years back. She’d helped him pick his unit out.

The slam of Raven’s door makes him jump. Charles’ eyes stay glued to Raven as she circles around the front of the car, ignoring the reporters’ renewed shouting, even when a few of them are bold enough to call her name, sunglasses firmly in place across her face. She tosses her keys to one of the valets who catches them and makes for the driver’s side of the car at once.

Raven yanks open Charles’ door as soon as she reaches it, murmuring, “Hold onto me,” and then Charles is sliding down from the passenger seat and out of the car, Raven’s strong, slender arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

Everything fades into white noise. Charles keeps his head ducked down, and barely sees the pavement with eyesight that’s narrowed down to tunnels as Raven steers him through the tight press of the crowd, bright flashes of light signifying that more cameras have gone off. Someone brushes his sleeve and he nearly jumps out of his skin, lurching sideways against Raven and almost struggling out of her grip but Raven keeps her hold on him, half-dragging him the last few steps to the revolving door and then a cool blast of air conditioning means they’ve made it inside.

Raven tows him over to a corner that has a couple of the cushy chairs that decorate the lobby, mostly out of sight from the reporters who still try to catch a glimpse of him through the glass. She lets go of him then and Charles’ knees finally buckle and he collapses down to sit in the chair, panting like he’s run a mile and heart pounding like he did it at a full-out sprint.

“Sorry, I couldn’t let go of you,” Raven says quietly, backing off a little, “will you be okay to stay here for a minute?”

Charles nods his head without looking up. He’s staring down at the marble floor tiles, trying to get their patterns to stop spinning.

“I’ll be right back,” she promises, and Charles hears her move off to start an angry whispered conversation with the front desk manager that he quickly tunes out.

Slowly, Charles’ adrenaline dies down as he squeezes the jump drive still tucked securely in his palm almost painfully tight while his other hand digs down into his pocket to grip the metal queen chess piece from Erik. It leaves him feeling hollowed out and exhausted, like he can’t possibly feel another emotion right now or he thinks he might shatter. His vision slowly comes back, settling and stopping the strange flickering where he keeps flashing back to the Serenity until all he sees is the tile. He shivers in the cold air of the building, his sweat cooling on his skin and Charles feels a strong urge for a long, hot shower.

He’ll probably be taking a lot of those, in the coming days.

Footsteps herald Raven’s approach, and Charles wearily lifts his head in time to take the water bottle she offers him. “He says he’ll have security try to get them cleared out,” she says as Charles gratefully twists the cap off and takes a few long draughts of water. “I told him that he should’ve had that done when he noticed them _amassing_ outside his front door.”

“Easy, tiger,” Charles says when he finds his voice, the words coming out thin and flimsy. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until now. He takes another long drink and finishes off the bottle entirely, crushing it in his grip once it’s empty.

“It’s bullshit,” Raven snaps, but then sighs. “Don’t worry. They’ll lose interest in you in a week. Some celebrity couple will break up or a politician will curse someone out and they’ll forget all about you.”

“I hope so,” Charles says. He’s surprised at the level of attention he’s receiving at all. Then again, he’d read the news reports back on Wade’s ship. The topic of the Serenity has been hotly debated on all sides for months now, so it stands to reason that as a direct witness he’s in high demand. He hopes Hank and Angel are coping alright. Kevin, at least, won’t be out of the hospital for some time, so he’ll be safe from the commotion.

“They’ll get bored with camping out here soon anyway,” Raven says confidently, “and they have no idea how boring you are to begin with. I could even shapeshift into you, how does that sound? I could just start droning on and on about planetary rotations and scare them off that way.”

She’s teasing him, trying to get him to laugh or even smile, but Charles still can’t muster up the strength for either. Instead he reaches out and squeezes her hand once in silent thanks. Fortunately for him, Raven’s a master of body language and doesn’t need much else to know that she’s appreciated.

“When you feel like standing, we’ll head upstairs,” is all she says, pulling out her phone to scroll through texts like she’s in no rush at all and doesn’t have a wife and baby to get back to, “but take your time.”

He’s so lucky, he thinks as he drops his head back into his hands. Raven is exactly what he needs right now, nothing more, nothing less.

Eventually he forces himself to get up and walks with Raven to the lift. He has to close his eyes on the way up, reminded of every instance he’d spent alone with Shaw in a lift. Raven must notice his white-knuckled grip on the railing because she stands directly beside him, close enough to reach out and squeeze his hand when the doors open.

“Okay?” she asks softly.

“Yeah.” He opens his eyes to see the short hallway that leads to his apartment, and the familiarity grounds him. Not the Serenity. Nowhere close.

His apartment is exactly as he’d left it. He could have stepped out of it yesterday. The building’s cleaning and maintenance bots have been through regularly, so the place isn’t even particularly dusty. Slowly, he hangs up his scarf on the hook in the hallway and shrugs out of his jacket. Light filters in down the hall through the open floor-to-ceiling window of the living room, warming him. Immediately the brightness reassures him. He lets out a long breath and walks in.

“Food in the fridge,” Raven says. “And I’ve always got my comm on me so if you need anything…”

“I’ll call,” Charles promises. “Thank you.”

“Okay. I need to get going soon. I have a dinner date with Irene and Kurt tonight. If you want to come over for that…”

“No, I’ll make something here. I just want to sleep tonight.”

“I get it.” She steps in close and hesitates a second before hugging him tightly. Though he tries not to, he still stiffens a bit, though neither of them moves to draw away. “I’m glad you’re home,” she whispers. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

“Okay.”

He watches her see herself out. Almost as soon as the door shuts behind her, he flies to it and activates the lock, then double checks it, triple checks it. Only once he’s stared hard for a solid minute at the tiny red light on the panel indicating the activated alarm system does he finally relax, muscles going loose.

He used to get restless alone in his apartment with no company. It used to be that he could only stay here for one or two days before having to go out and meet up with friends or colleagues to avoid going stir crazy. But now he would be more than content to remain behind this locked door for the rest of the week, for the rest of the year. At least it’s safe in here.

He wanders through the apartment in a haze for several minutes, just touching and looking over everything. Though everything is familiar, it’s still going to take a while to get used to this again: having his own space, having his own things. When he reaches the shower adjacent to the bedroom, he strips off all his clothes and leaves them piled on the floor as he turns on the water and steps into it. The hot spray is cleansing and calming like nothing else is these days.

He spends an hour in the shower resolutely not worrying about Erik and whether or not he and the others got away safely. They must be thousands of light years distant by now, far beyond the reach of the IF. Soon they’ll be back in the OZs and impossible to track. By the time the IF trawls through the records to track down any missing inmates from the Serenity, Wade will have spirited all of them away into the stars.

He wonders if Erik thinks of him. He wonders if Erik’s chest feels as hollow as his does, if there’s a space next to Erik that feels empty because he’s not there.

The shower abruptly becomes lonely and distinctly unsatisfying. Switching off the water, Charles dries himself, walks naked to his bedroom, and finds new, clean clothes. They’re especially wonderful because they’re his own: his own gray Academy t-shirt and worn sweatpants. No more wearing dirty uniforms, no more sleeping in shirts he’s worked in, no more impersonal hospital garments.

Once he’s comfortable, he settles down in the den with his tablet in hand. _Rest_ , the doctors had told him, but he’s not tired—not in any way that sleep would help, anyway. His mind needs to work. He needs to apply himself, needs a distraction.

Most of all, he needs to find the truth behind Omicron, for his own sake as much as Erik’s. Erik won’t be safe until Omicron’s secrets are aired out and spotlighted, and Charles won’t rest easy until Erik’s safe. There’s only one way to guarantee that.

One by one, Charles downloads the Omicron files from the jump drive onto his tablet, watching as the dozens of files accumulate on the screen. It takes several minutes but eventually they’ve all been transferred and sit waiting to be perused. To be shaken open for answers.

Taking a deep breath, he opens the first document and begins.

 


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading and sticking with us till the end!

_One Year Later_

Charles wakes before his alarm and just lies there for a few minutes, enjoying the warmth of the bed and the comfortable weight of the dog lying across his legs. Cosmos is dreaming again, her legs twitching and her lip curling as she chases something in her sleep. She’s been dreaming a lot lately, about as much as he does. Maybe she misses Earth.

He turns off the alarm so it won’t wake her and picks up the tablet sitting on the nightstand. While he was asleep, a few new messages have arrived, mostly from friends, one from Raven, one from Moira. None of them are particularly important—mostly just asking how he is and if he’s busy this week—so he leaves them to read later and scans over the news headlines for a few minutes. A banking mogul has expanded his business to Prillion, Corellia’s neighboring planet. A minor hovercar accident caused a fourteen-minute delay on the road an hour ago. There’s a new popular band coming to Corellia from two zones over. He thinks it might be one of those bands Raven likes, so he bookmarks it to check out tickets later. It’s almost her birthday, and he wants to give her some time to herself if he can; she’s been way too occupied lately with Kurt, who’s growing almost too quickly to keep up with.

Below the news about the band, a small headline reads “IF OMICRON INVESTIGATION COMMITTEE TO BE DISBANDED FOLLOWING COURT VICTORIES – COMMITTEE HEAD BISHOP GIVES EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW.” Charles hesitates for a moment, his finger hovering over the link. Then he turns off his tablet and lays it aside.

“Come on, girl,” he says, shifting his feet until Cosmos lifts her head. “Let’s get something to eat.”

The kitchen is light and warm this far into the summer. Seasons on Corellia aren’t quite what they are on Earth, but with the terraforming and climate control tech, they’re close enough. As he sips his morning tea, Charles gazes out into the sunlit street and watches as a couple of children race by, shrieking with laughter. A small, green-scaled lizard-like creature lopes along after them, making raspy sounds that sound like Cosmos when she’s hoarse from barking too much. When Charles’ therapist had recommended that he invest in an emotional support animal, ehrlats had been on the list, but Charles hadn’t been quite comfortable with all those scales. Cosmos is a much better fit.

After he feeds her and takes a shower, he shakes the leash by the door and grins when Cosmos comes running. She heels obediently long enough for him to clip the leash on and then strains toward the door, eager as ever to escape the confines of the apartment.

The nearest park is fifteen minutes away, which is right in Charles’ normal range. He doesn’t like traveling to unfamiliar places too far from home; too many strangers, too many ways for things to go wrong. He’s been getting better at it lately, good enough that he thinks he might try to take the pilot recertification exam later this year—Bishop keeps him posted on the IF’s progress of deciding how to track down the Serenity, after all, now that the mission finally got its green light just a couple months ago after wading through miles and miles of red-taped bureaucracy, so on his better days Charles toys with the idea of requesting a position on the special ops retrieval team—but still, he likes sticking to well-traveled paths. The routine and familiarity is soothing.

The park is relatively empty this early in the morning, especially on a Tenthday, when most children are in school and adults are at work. Charles jogs a couple of circuits around the wide circumference of the park before settling down on a bench to toss a ball for Cosmos to run after. He’s just hurled the ball far out of view behind a copse of trees when a mind enters his awareness.

He keeps his telepathy more loosely held these days than he used to. It’s more tiring that way but also more comforting; he likes knowing exactly who’s around him at all times and exactly how close they are. At the touch of this foreign mind in the otherwise empty park, he turns to peer down the path. The stranger is far enough away that Charles isn’t wary of being snuck up upon, but he still wants to get a look at who’s coming.

There’s a tall, lean figure heading steadily toward him. At a glance, he looks like any other early-morning jogger, or perhaps some of those bird watchers that come to see the native Corellian avian species. But Charles realizes after a moment that the stranger is looking at him—staring directly at him, in fact—and there’s an intensity there that makes him instantly uneasy. He stands up, intending to call Cosmos to him, but then the stranger walks into a patch of sunlight filtering in through a gap between the trees and Charles sees his face.

His stomach does something inexplicable, and his heart follows in suit. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t even breathe. He can’t move, sure that if he even trembles, Erik will disappear.

But he doesn’t. He walks directly over and stops right in front of Charles, close enough to speak but not close enough to touch. He’s everything Charles remembers and more: he has a light beard and a new, faint scar cutting across his left cheekbone, but his eyes are the same. They’re locked on Charles wonderingly, as if he can scarcely believe this moment himself.  

Somehow Charles finds the strength to say, “Hi.”

Erik’s mouth twitches. “Hi.”

Charles’ eyes rove over him restlessly, unable to find a place to latch onto. “You’re…you…” _You’re here. You came back. You came for me._

“You have a beard,” is what he says finally.

Erik raises a hand to scrub at it. “Yeah. I just…felt like it.”

“I like it.”

“Do you?” Charles doesn’t think he imagines the flash of pleasure in Erik’s eyes. “I’ll keep it then.”

They smile at each other for a moment. Then Charles steps back and gestures at the bench. “Do you want to sit or…?”

“Yes, sure.”

He’s acutely aware of Erik’s proximity as they settle on the bench. They could touch now if he shifted over a mere foot, but Erik’s giving off a strange, distant vibe. Now that Charles notices it, anxiety begins to rise in his chest. What if Erik hasn’t come back for him after all? What if Erik is here to give him…some sort of closure?

“You look well,” Erik says after a while.

“Yeah, I’m…” It’s been months upon months of therapy and not a small amount of medication, as well as a destructive alcoholic spiral that Raven had snapped him out of pretty quickly, but he feels stronger now. The worst of it is over. “I’m doing well.” He studies Erik’s face out of the corner of his eye, feeling oddly too shy to give Erik a bold scrutiny. “And you?”

“As well as you could imagine. I…” Erik hesitates.

In the pause, Cosmos comes running out of the trees towards them, the ball clenched between her teeth. She starts straight for Charles, then slows to a confused trot when she spots Erik.

Charles holds out his hand for her and she comes closer, tail wagging slowly. “It’s alright,” he tells her softly. “He’s a friend.”

“He’s yours?” Erik asks, extending his hand for Cosmos to sniff.

“She is.”

Erik pats her flank. “She’s beautiful. She must have cost a fortune.”

Anything from Old Earth costs a fortune. “She was worth it,” Charles says with a shrug. She’s kept the nightmares off him when very few other things could.

Erik continues to pet her until she flops down at his feet and begins to gnaw on her ball. Then Erik sits back again, his mouth tightening.

“What’s wrong?” Charles asks, almost sure he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“I…” Erik takes a deep breath and blows it back out in a rush. “I saw what you did. With Omicron. They never mentioned you by name, they always called you an anonymous source, but I knew it was you.”

Charles grips Cosmos’ leash tightly in his lap. All this time he had wondered if Erik would ever read the news headlines, if he would ever catch Erik’s attention. And now Erik is here, as clear an answer as any.

“I was hoping…I was waiting for you to come.”

Erik’s expression seems to ease fractionally. “As soon as Stryker was convicted and they announced my pardon, I found a transport that would take me to the IZs. I admit, I couldn’t believe it for a while. I spent a few days just fucking around on the borders of the OZs. I wasn’t sure if the news was true, and once it was confirmed, I wasn’t sure…well. Things might have changed. With you. About us.”

Was Erik unsure of his welcome here? How could he be, when they had said goodbye in the way they had, with touches that had promised so much more?

“Nothing’s changed,” Charles says. “Not for me at least.”

Erik’s relief washes against his mind, warmer than any sunlight. “I wasn’t sure…”

“You should have been. I missed you every day.”

The confession makes Erik take a breath. Then he turns and grabs Charles’ arm in a movement sudden enough to alarm Cosmos, who jumps up with a bark, teeth bared.

“It’s alright, girl,” Charles says soothingly, breaking away from Erik’s immediately slackened grip to snag her by the collar. “Hush, it’s alright.”

Erik looks faintly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I just really want to kiss you.”

Charles lets go of Cosmos’ collar in surprise. All of a sudden breathless, he manages, “Well then,” and somehow steadies his hands enough to pull Erik down and press their mouths together.

For a long moment, Erik remains stiff as a board and wide-eyed, like he hadn’t really expected Charles to take him up on his offer. But when Charles makes to pull away, uncertain, Erik seizes his arm and holds him in place. Then he reaches up to dig his fingers into Charles’ hair and kisses Charles with a ragged gasp, hot and fierce, his touch trembling along Charles’ jaw and the scrape of his beard sending sparks dancing up Charles’ spine.

They’ve kissed before, of course, but it’s been a long time since Charles has kissed Erik outside his better dreams, the first time in a long time Charles has felt Erik’s mind, the first real kiss in a long time where Charles loses himself in the swirl and eddy of all of Erik’s tumultuous thoughts. The breadth of his emotion strikes Charles dizzy—there’s far too much to parse at once, so he only manages to decipher snippets here and there: disbelief, fear, relief, joy, excitement, on and on and on in a whirlwind that makes Charles’ head spin. But at the root of the confused storm, clear and unmistakable, is Erik’s powerful, long pent-up _love_ for him, and Charles can’t breathe when he touches it. He has never been loved like this, ever, and he doubts he ever will be again.

“I have no right to ask anything of you,” Erik says unevenly when they part. He still grips Charles close, their foreheads touching. “You’ve already given me so much. But if you still want me—”

“Tell me you’ll stay,” Charles says with a wet laugh. “Come home with me and stay.”

Erik smiles, too, and presses a kiss to the edge of Charles’ mouth that promises so many, many more. “Whatever you ask.”

Charles smooths hands that tremble slightly across Erik’s broad shoulders, reaffirming his solid realness even as his closes his eyes. “I’m not easy to live with, these days,” he says quietly, “but we could try. I’d like to try.”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” Erik says softly into the scant space left between them, one broad, warm hand sliding down through Charles’ hair and shifting forward to cup Charles’ jaw and cheek. “Anything.”

Charles makes a small embarrassing sound as Erik tilts his face up for another kiss, his hands going tight around Erik’s shoulders as Erik makes him lose all sense of gravity, the world flipping several times over along as his heart beats madly in his chest, stars sparking bright and vibrant behind his closed eyes as Erik kisses him breathless all over again. He’s dimly aware of Cosmos nosing at his knee, concerned and unused to seeing her master so close to someone else who isn’t Raven or Irene, but Charles can only concentrate on Erik, _Erik Erik Erik_ , his atoms and Erik’s atoms aligning like planets in perfect harmony to where they fit together just right.

When they break apart at last Charles opens his eyes slowly and Erik drops a hand down to stroke Cosmos’ soft head soothingly, a small smile curling at the corners of his lips. The sunlight shifts across Erik’s hair, bathing them both in warm light, and Charles knows that they can have this. This is their forever.

“Well then,” Erik says, wrapping his hand around Charles’ and sliding their fingers together, his mind pulsing happy and bright alongside Charles’ own, “let’s go home.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will return with a coda fic!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "the stars incline us, they do not bind us"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071588) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)
  * [Art inspired by The stars incline us they do not bind us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3593391) by [Mikanskey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikanskey/pseuds/Mikanskey)
  * [Cover for "The Stars Incline Us, They Do Not Bind Us by Ikeracity & Pangea"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167191) by [PeggyStarkk (LupusUlulans)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LupusUlulans/pseuds/PeggyStarkk)




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